


Fifteen Nights

by Calicy



Category: Marco Polo (TV)
Genre: F/M, Interconnected Drabbles, Origin Story, Predictions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 02:53:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3633981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calicy/pseuds/Calicy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he was a child, Byamba's mother taught him many lessons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fifteen Nights

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I

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When he is seven years old, one of the noblemen's sons pushes him down a flight of stairs outside the Hall of Fragrance. No one is quite sure what inspires the boy to do so.

 

Byamba tumbles down the steps, landing chin first on the hard wooden floor below. The force of his fall shoves his lower front teeth deep into his lip.

 

Byamba does not cry. He is old enough to know better. As he pushes himself to his feet, he can’t stop the blood from seeping down his chin. Byamba covers his lips, head down as he looks back up the stairs. Jinghim, a gaggle of court children, and their attendants stand, watching him.

 

“My lord,” the boy’s caretaker says.

 

The guilty boy glances up at his attendant. The woman shakes her head at him and the boy bites his lip. The other children giggle. Jinghim fights a smile, nose high as he glances down at Byamba. The prince turns away, his retinue moving with him.

 

Byamba is pulling himself to his feet when he hears a grunt from above followed by the sound of a small body crashing against wooden steps. Byamba’s attacker lands prone at the foot of the stairs. The smaller boy scrambles to his feet, tears trailing down his face as he and Byamba both look up the stairs.

 

The Khan’s niece, the one the Empress describes as “half horse, half wild animal”, is watching them. From her place in the crowd, she glares down at them, her lips tight.

 

The boy begins wailing. The attendant is not lenient with Lord Kaidu’s daughter. The girl does not cry out but Byamba still winces as the attendant boxes the princess’ ears. He crawls away before the attendant’s punishment can reach him.

 

He walks through the halls of the palace, head low so no one will see his injury. Outside the room he and his mother share, several of the concubines stop and fuss over him. He brushes off their hands. He assures them he is fine. It is not their attention that he desires.

 

Curled up into herself by the window in their room, his mother’s hands fly as she tears at stitches of one of his deels. Byamba is growing again and many of his clothes have become too small. When she hears his footsteps, she calls to him without looking up, “Come here. See if this is long enough for you now.”

 

He is struck by shame for having come to her like a small child. Byamba does not respond to her words, moving to discretely spit into the wash basin. He brushes his tongue against the cut on his mouth, feeling a rush of pain. He washes his face with a bit of water before turning to his mother. She is watching him, her work hanging in her hands. She lays the deel down. Taking his bath cloth from its hook on the wall, she waves for him to come, “Were you playing?”

 

Byamba opens his mouth so she can examine the cut. She is a small woman. Already, he is almost taller than her and he has to bend so that she can see. She clucks her tongue and holds the cloth against his lip. When the blood is staunched, she pulls the cloth away, folding it until the square is clean before she moves to wipe his wet face.

 

“Were you playing?” his mother asks again.

 

He is bad liar so he nods, his curls bouncing against his forehead. She brushes his hair away from his eyes, holding his head so that he cannot look away from her. He forces his face into a neutral mien but it is too late.  Her expression crumples as she studies his face.

 

“What were you doing Byamba?”

 

He presses his lips together, his eyes wandering away from hers. She stands straight, eyes narrowing as she says, “Perhaps you are weary from growing. Shall I fetch you some aaruul to eat? It is good for your teeth, remember. Gives your strong bones.”

 

“Qadan pushed me down the stairs,” he blurts out. The very idea of the revolting dried curds his mother insists he eat nightly force that words from his mouth.

 

She nods, shrugging before releasing his face from her grasp, “Do not concern yourself with that boy’s opinion. Qadan is weakling and his father’s holds little stock in our court. Tell me about your trip with your father this morning.”

 

“My father and I went to the armory with his military advisors,” he says. He is surprised. He expected she would at least insist he apologize to Qadan for whatever had inspired the other boy’s ill will.

 

She waits for him to elaborate on his visit but he can’t think of anything else to say. He is uncertain on why she had thought the occasion was one of such importance. She had fussed and fretted for days, drilling him on hundreds of basic courtesies and protocols.

 

“Were you polite?” his mother asks. She straightens the tunic he is wearing, a fine article of clothing she had made for him in anticipation of this day.

 

“I walked next to him. I spoke only when spoken to like you told me to,” Byamba says. He wants to tell her about the inventions the engineers had shown the Khan on his tour but he does not think now is the time. Instead he adds, “My father had me demonstrate the new skills I learned.”

 

He had wondered at her motive when she had asked him to carry the wooden practice sword on the tour with him. She asks, her mouth pinch with a suppressed smile, “Was he pleased?”

 

“He was. He told me I get stronger every day,” Byamba says.

 

“You have benefited much from the tutelage of Master Cheng,” his mother says. Her expression becomes smug for a split second. She had pressed herself to Khan’s ear to ensure Byamba had instruction by the sword doyen of Cambulac. Then her face returns to its calm demeanor. “Be sure to thank your teacher for his efforts.”

 

“Your critique during my practice helped as well,” Byamba says, “One of the generals said my form was without flaw.”

 

She nods, her neck bent by modesty.

 

“Soon, my father says, I will march with his army,” Byamba adds.

 

He thought this would please her but for some reason, her eyes are sad when she says, “One day you will be a great warrior, Byamba.”

 

“Do you think that is why Qadan was angry with me? He is not as skilled with the blade as I am,” Byamba asks.

 

His mother’s eyes narrow but he cannot stop.

 

“Or perhaps he wanted to go on the tour as well.” Byamba had been so engrossed in the weapons around him that he had not realized at the time that he was the only child in the armory, “Or - ”

 

“Do not concern yourself with what Qadan thinks,” his mother snaps. Byamba withers at her harsh words but she does not settle down, “Were you not listening? He is a weakling and his father is insignificant.”

 

“But - ”

 

“Byamba,” his mother says, “Was your father pleased with you?”

 

Byamba nods. The khan had smiled, deep wrinkles settling into the corners of his eyes, when he had watched Byamba with his sword. After the demonstration, the khan had rested a hand on his son’s shoulders, his grip tightening every so often.

 

“That is all then,” his mother says, “Do not choose Qadan. Do not choose any lord or lady. Do not choose even me. Never choose me. Choose your father. He can take care of you as no one else can.”

 

 

When she is angry, her face withers and her skin looks like curdled milk. Once, she had been a beauty which had inspired songs. Now, she is aged, by years and by experiences. It is a rare event that Byamba is taken from her room so that she may visit with the Khan.

 

Byamba does not see ugliness nor old age when he looks at his mother’s face. Even at his young age, he sees only a small woman, a fragile bird who requires his care.

 

It seems heartless, in the moment, to think of being so callous. He looks down at his small mother and feels his throat tightening. Yet, he sees her clenched hands and her set jaw. This is what she wants. He nods again.

 

She looks at his face and sighs. Holding his elbows, she says, “Do not be soft Byamba. That will do nothing for you. Be a stone. Become untouchable by the words of the unimportant.”

 

He could not describe what she meant. He did not have the knowledge or the experience.

 

However, at that time he began to memorize. It was a small part of him, a worldlier and wiser part, which saw and knew. She is a stone smoothed by rain. Like the mountains and valleys, she was forged by rivers. The world around her leaves its imprint on her. It changes her but only in that it makes her more invincible. She endures.

 

Even as a small child, he knows such traits are valuable to him. So he began to learn. He became accustomed to the air of her person, the manner in which she stood tall and proud. He set himself to mastering the defense of fine words and silence. He commits her face, her iron features and her proud disposition, to memory. These could become the most valuable lessons she could give him.

 

“Yes, mother,” Byamba says.

 

“Go,” his mother says, “Practice your archery.”

 

He grabs his bow and runs down to the training fields. He is not a good archer and soon he forgets his mother’s words. Her advice becomes lost as a fury missed targets and of curses fill his mind in their stead. Her lesson are pushed to the periphery where they remain, guiding him as his life and standing in the court grow more complex. It was not until he was much older that he realized they were not so different. They both are of little consequence in the world until they demonstrated useful skill. His mother had known this fact well.

 

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II

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Byamba runs straight to his mother’s room.

 

“She was dangling from the pillar like an acrobat,” he tells his mother, who watches him with wide eyes, “He was grunting like an angry pig. I thought he was hurting her when he rammed his hips against hers. They were both angry when I pushed him off of her.”

 

“Where were you?” his mother asks. Her cheeks flush. Byamba does not know if she is angry or embarrassed. “What were you doing?”

 

"I was outside my father's court," Byamba says. Then he adds, "He had me stand right next to the steps of his throne. One of the agricultural ministers gave a report and the Khan asked me for my opinion on the matter."

 

He does not tell her that he knew not how to answer the father’s questions. Byamba had no mind for words or figures. Battle tactics and how to maintain an army were the focus of Byamba’s lessons. The small boy, the Khan’s new pet, Ahmed, had given the Khan advice.

 

She is not distracted. "You saw this lord with his consort outside the Khan's court?"

 

"Not just outside the door," Byamba says. "They were in a hidden corner."

 

Her hands, which she had folded on her lap, begin to twist and squirm.

 

He knows her habits but he can't help himself. He has some idea of what he had seen but he desires confirmation."What were they doing, mother?"

 

Her expression remains unchanged but she mangles her fingers together. "Husband and wife things."

 

"Tetseg said - "

 

"Tetseg was wrong," his mother snaps, as if predicting what her fellow consort had told him. "It is a pleasure only a husband and wife should share."

 

"To make children," Byamba adds.

 

"Yes," his mother says, "To make children."

 

He falls quiet. His mother watches his for a moment longer before turning her attention back to her previous task. She was sharpening his sword when he burst into their room.

 

"You are not married to my father," Byamba says.

 

His mother looks up from her work. "I am not."

 

Something flashes across her eyes and even at his young age, he recognizes it. She grieves for reasons he does not understand.

 

His question hides in his throat, unable to move beyond to his tongue to be spoken.

 

"Come sit next to me," she says, putting her work down, “You mistake my intent, I think.”

 

He takes a seat next to her on the bed.

 

"You know I am not Mongolian, yes?" she says.

 

He nods. She comes from a land far away, from a tribe in a scorching desert. She had many brothers and one younger sister as a child. A merchant took her and her sister when food became scarce and necessary trades needed to transpire. His mother had been twelve at the time.

 

"Where I come from, we do not have marriages. All children are honored, no matter their parent’s union. That is our way."

 

Byamba leans forward. His mother shares few details of her childhood with him. He is always intrigued by her descriptions. She tell him much about her youth and her many full-blooded siblings and her fiery homeland with its strange animals and foreign tongue. Yet, he knows there is more. She does not speak on the sister with whom she was traded, nor the brothels which she resided in before coming to the harem.

 

"There are no bastards?" Byamba asks. His tongue itches to ask why, if all children are honored, why then were she and her sister deemed expendable while her many brother not? Is it for the same reason that some of the women in the harm were given to noblemen as favors like coin at the market? Or perhaps it was in the same line of thinking which allowed men to have concubines but did not afford women a similar luxury?

 

His mother is shaking her head. Her eyes are sad and he stomps down his inquiries, "That is correct, Byamba. There are no bastards. I gave you a burden to carry. Perhaps you know that well. Perhaps you will come to know that. Promise me that you will not give that burden to your own children. Promise me you will not dishonor your woman by having her carry your bastard."

 

"I will not do husband and wife things until I am married," he promises without hesitation. She smiles, to his great relief, but the expression does not reach her eyes.

 

"No. I know you will not." She says. It is not a simple statement. It is a warning.

 

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III

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The fire feels good on his skin, particularly on that cold evening. He is sleepy and content, his belly full from the feast held in his father’s honor. One of the general had given Byamba permission to sip from his cup. Already his skin is warm and flushed from his first taste of fermented milk. He had only drunk half of the general’s offering but already his smile is too easy.

 

His father’s laughter travels across the fire to his son’s ears. Byamba looks, grinning when he sees the Khan’s eyes have fallen on him. His father raises his cup to Byamba. Between the boisterous soldiers around them and the distance between them, Byamba cannot hear what is being said. However, he can recognize the movement of the Khan’s lips and sees the glances of his father's companions. He knows his own name on the mouth of another. His father is talking about him.

 

Byamba flushes, rubbing the sore flesh of his hip. An enemy soldier with a club had beaten him, thrice. Then, Byamba had ended him. It was the first time he had killed a man. It was the first time he had fought in a battle. His skin is crawling as he remembers the life fading from the man’s eyes. Byamba had hesitated just before killing the man. He had hesitated and he cannot understand why.

 

His mother had insisted he be brave. He had cowered. She would be shamed to know he had almost been drawn to help his enemy.

 

Byamba finishes the airag. Then he quietly grabs the jug again, filling his drink.He takes a long sip and places the cup on the table in front of him.

 

The shadows move behind him and his bowl disappears. Byamba turns to see Princess Khutulun gulping his airag. Her eyes glimmer over the brim of the cup.

 

“My lady,” Byamba says.

 

She finishes drinking, her tongue darting to lick the line of milk off her upper lip. Her careless grin widens when she hears him speak, her big horse like front teeth glowing in the firelight. He knows that, in spite of her birthright, few call her by any title.

 

"Byamba," she replies, "Who gave you airag?"

 

"General Batbayar," Byamba says.

 

She refills the cup, taking another sip before handing it to him. She watches him, expectant. He fidgets under her stare before drinking. She puffs her chest, "You drink airag now because you are a powerful man, a warrior."

 

She laughs and something deep inside his belly tightens. Byamba says, "I suppose."

 

She giggles again, louder and longer than before. He presses his lips together. Khutulun grows silent, shuddering even after her laughing fades into silence until he can stand it no more.

 

"What is funny?"

 

"The boy who feared insects," Khutulun says, "is a great warrior."

 

Byamba glares at her, takes another sip of airag.

 

Her laughter begins again. Her small body heaves and she falls onto her back. Her big front teeth glint in the firelight as she writhes, "You, who would not defend himself from the taunts of other, smaller children, you are a fierce soldier."

 

His eyebrow knot and he feels his mouth hanging open. In spite of himself, he can't find his words again.

 

"You stutter around pretty girls. Yet, they say you will be a fine general someday. They say you will lead men into battle and take many victories."

 

He slaps his hand onto her mouth to silence her. Her eyes widen and then she begins to shake, laughing once more at him. She bites his palm but he does not release her.

 

She tilts her face up, her eyes intent on his. For some strange reason, this makes him very aware of his hand on her lips and how close their faces are.

 

“I am not afraid of insect. I simply hate spiders. They bite and they can be poisonous.”

 

And they were small and pesky and sneaky too. They had too many legs and too many eyes. Spider and Khutulun had much in common, really, save for the numerous limbs and multiple eyes.

 

“And it was not my place to be insolent,” Byamba says, “I do not expect you to understand this.”

 

Of all her statements, this observation had made him most angry. He had never wished to be place among the ranks of the court children. His mother’s work had ensured that. All he could do was be a stone as his mother instructed. Yet he knew he was not something which would withstand the attack of words. He was mud, pliable and lowly.

 

Mercifully, Khutulun’s laughter finally fades. He is surprised. She nods but this time, the gesture is more sympathetic.

 

“You were insolent enough for the both of us.”

 

She rolls her eyes at him. He removes his hand and she sits up, leaning towards him. She seems unaware of his pounding heart and hot skin and for that he is grateful. She says, “Do not fret on the court children. I bloodied each and every one of them when their attendants left them unwatched. They all cried for forgiveness from you.”

 

“You only served to worsen their words for me in encounters which followed,” Byamba says. Complaints were beneath his mother. She would have held her head high, not thought twice on small issues such as the memory of childish quarrels. He wishes he could be silent but his thoughts are loose and unburdened by decorum. They float easily out of his mouth, without proper inspection.

 

“Perhaps, I did,” Khutulun says, “Remember, though, you are here, by our Khan’s side as he sings your praise. And where are the court children? Home in their beds, forgotten. In the end, it appears you were the victor.”

 

Byamba finished the airag, pours another cup which he offers to her.

 

She drinks before she says, “My father says you made our clan proud today.”

 

He bites his tongue to hide the pride which swells in his chest, “I only fulfilled the duty I have to my father.”

 

“Indeed,” Khutulun says, taking some of the meat from his plate, “Where is Jinghim?”

 

“In Cambulac. With the Empress,” Byamba replies. He thinks of his own mother who had painstakingly packed his belongings for him weeks prior. She is ill, for the upteenth time. He wonders if anyone will care for her in his absence. He had spent all of his monthly stipend on medicine from a well-regarded Muslim healer. He hopes it is not another false cure.

 

“You miss him?” Khutulun asks, misreading his expression. She pouts, as always, impudent.  

 

“I miss my mother,” Byamba says. The airag is making his tongue very loose.

 

“Oh,” Khutulun says. She hands him the airag. He braces himself for more taunting but she says, “You made her proud today too. I am sure she will be glad to see you again.”

 

He pauses, waiting still for her to mock him. She does not.

 

“She will be happy I honored my duty to the Khan as well,” Byamba says. Duty. The word is heavy on his mind. It seems endless. He fought to honor his duty. The enemy soldiers fought to honor their duty. He remembers the men he killed today. He wonders if they had children waiting for them to return. He wonders if duty will calm their fears and appease their sorrows.

 

“And you? Do you take pride in honoring your duty?” Khutulun asks.

 

He blinks, curious as to how she knew his thoughts. He drinks more airag before saying, “I have devoted my life is serving the Khan’s will.”

 

“You did not answer my question,” Khutulun says. She sways, pressing her shoulder to his, “I will forgive your insolence.”

 

She is much too close now. The firelight catches on her face, illuminating her brown eyes. Her irises are like copper, umber, and carob mosaic tiles crafted together. He seems to have lost the ability to breath. Why does he behave so? Is he ill? Is he cursed?

 

Then she says, “What of the pretty ladies? You gave no defense for your shyness around pretty ladies.”

 

Byamba forces himself to inhale. “I have no defense. I often find I become nervous around beautiful women.” His voice quivers on the final words.

 

“You become quiet when you are nervous, do you not?"

 

To his great misfortune, once again, he cannot muster the ability to converse. He nods, dumbly.

 

She grins, her body coming closer to his. The blood rushes from his head and he feels dizzy. She pauses, for only a second. He takes in every detail of her face, knowing he will remember the image long after. He feels his lips begin to pull towards her.

 

Behind them, a drunk soldier knocks over his table. Byamba jumps to his feet, eyes frantic.

 

He glances down at Khutulun, who is swaying again, this time to stand. She clucks her tongue, “A great warrior.”

 

She leans down, drinking his airag a final time, snickering at his expression. She shoves his face away, knocking him off balance, before she disappears into the darkness she came from.

 

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IV

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The vultures begin to circle as the servants prepare the body. The lieutenant is stripped of his clothing, exposed to the Great Blue. The man was a Buddhist and the monks attend to him as well. The smell of the incense they burn and the sounds of their chants fill Byamba’s senses. They, mercifully, drown out the sounds of the servants hacking the body into small pieces.

 

When the living move to the side, the birds come for the dead. Byamba turns his eyes towards the horizon. It is not the man who mentored him below being devoured by the animals.

 

The lieutenant had been a bastard too, the son of a concubine and high ranking lord. He had taken it upon himself to guide Byamba. The man had taught him to eat, sleep, and joke with the other soldiers and gain their favor.

 

“Loyalty can be had regardless of birth,” the lieutenant had once said to Byamba.

 

That man is gone, Byamba tells himself, as the vultures tear at sinew. He will be missed. The lieutenant is gone. Byamba feels his heart begin to race.

 

Byamba looks around, realizing he is alone. The servants are gone and the monks have retreated. The holy men will return for the bones, to prepare them for the lesser birds.

 

It had not been battle which had killed the man. It had not been sickness. He had cut his hand while sharpening arrows and the cut had become swollen and inflamed and leaked pus. The lieutenant had burned and shriveled from an inexplicable fever.

 

It was the spirits, many said. The spirits made the man shake and hallucinate. Perhaps that was true or perhaps not. In the end, it was of little concern. The lieutenant would never sneak sweets for Byamba or provide him words of advice.

 

Byamba could die in such a way too. It need not be a simple cut. It might be a blow to the head during some future war. It could be sickness. It could be an endless sleep when he is a hundred years old. He thinks he prefers the latter but he knows he has little say in his end.

 

Byamba does not often think about growing old or dying. His legs still ache at night from growing and he is yet to have much hair on his body. He wonders where he might find food to feed his ever-present hunger. He contemplates on his new and frequent lascivious thoughts. He ponders on whether he might ever master archery or be forever doomed for poor aim and weak fingers.

 

Yet, now, his mind is on more deep concepts. He is thinking about death. Will his funeral procession be as empty as that of the lieutenant’s? Will he have children to give him back to the sky? Will he be mourned at all?

 

What is death like? Is it quiet and black, like a long night in the desert? Is it bright and full of life like a marketplace? Something in between? Will there be an omniscient divine presence with the answer to any question he has? Will he still know life, with all it sufferings and blessings, even if he no longer walks the earth?

 

He does not know. It is maddening. It makes him feel insignificant. It is almost peaceful too. No matter what wrongs he makes in his life, no matter what good he does, it is of no consequence. It is not even a figure in the sum of the universe.

 

He could have many years of life in front of him. What he does with that life is what he has a say in. What shall he do? His mother would tell him to serve the Khan. Was that all though? What if he fell from favor? What if another Khan came to power? When he was a child, she had made it all seem so certain and he had believed her. The world is more complex now.

 

If this, death, were the only certainty, then life should be lived as well as it could be. What did that mean for Byamba? What would make him looked at his life and be pleased?

 

He did not want an endless series of battle he fought to be his sole legacy.

 

His mother had been right. The sword was the means towards something more. He need not be a bastard. He could become something more. A father, a husband, yes, he thinks. He would like that. He wished for someone to care for, someone who would keep his house warm and  eagerly await his return from battle, someone who would be mourn him when he passed. He smirks at the idea.  He has not even touched a woman immodestly and yet here he is, contemplating a family. Still, the thought remains.

 

The monks and servants return eventually for the bones. One day they will come for Byamba. What shall he do until then?

 

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V

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"This is pleasant," Khutulun says. She has repeated this statement many times in different phrases. He does not blame her for her unnecessary words. The silence is overwhelming.

 

He stands in the middle of the hot spring. He is just tall enough to lean up on his toes, his chin above the water. His skin is wrinkled and the water had long ago become much too hot but he can’t bring himself to notice these details.

 

Khutulun paddles in circles around him, watching him out of the corner of her eye. When he meets her gaze, she ducks beneath the water. He drops his hands to cover himself, cursing. Why had he agreed to this? Why does he not leave? He is already clean.

 

On the edge of the hot spring, Khutulun reemerges. She reached up to hold onto one of the overlying rocks, dangling, moving with the waves of the water. Byamba drops his eyes but not before he notices the curve of her breasts. They both wear only thin cloth tunics. He drops down under the water, contemplates drowning himself.

 

He is not a child anymore but he is not a man either. He still has frequent, feverish dreams. Most of such interludes usually ended with him awakening, image burned into his eyelids with his body responding to the traitorous memories. He had hoped such changes would remain secret.

 

Now, they are in danger of being shared. Byamba had been entranced by Khutulun for as long as he could remember. There was something wild and free about her that demanded his attention and his envy. Presently, he can’t stop her visage from intruding his thoughts.  

 

He allows himself to resurface. He had never been elegant with words but he wants to step on his own feet when he says, “This is indeed pleasant.”

 

Khutulun looks over, surprised by his response. He had been silent since they had reached the hot spring. She grins. He is sad to notice her front teeth are no longer larger than the rest. “I knew you would enjoy it, Byamba.”

 

All the blood in his body seems to be rushing to his face at the sight of her smile. “You have my gratitude for bringing me here.”

 

She releases her hold on the rock, swimming gracefully through the water towards him. There is nothing malicious about her smile but he feels victimized by it nonetheless. She says, like a fellow conspirator, “Do you think they have noticed our absence?”

 

The water is beautiful around them. It is deep, clear, and bright, almost silver in the moonlight. He forces himself to notice these details. “I am uncertain.”

 

“I do not think they will. My father is preening for the Khan and your father has enough drink and meat to distract him for the rest of the night,” Khutulun says.

 

She turns, floating on her back. Her arm nudges against his as she rests on the water’s surface. Her tunic clings to her skin. Byamba’s own clothing feels tighter at the sight. He has never despised her so much.

 

Byamba lifts his hands, trailing his fingers on the water’s surface. The ripples around his finger tips are quite interesting, he tells himself. To her, he says, "Are you frightened of the task before you?”

 

Khutulun sets her feet down on the bottom of the hot spring. “I wish to honor my father. Much of my life and freedom depend on his opinion of me and my skill. It is a heavy burden. You know this better than anyone.”

 

Byamba sinks in the water to wet his hair more. His ears beneath the water, he can pretend he does not hear what she says. Her statement is born from a dangerous thought. Serving the Khan is not a burden. It should not be thought of as such and yet. . .

 

“We are both lucky,” Khutulun muses. “We are both naturally inclined in things our fathers can approve of.”

 

“I was frightened,” Byamba says to change the subject, “There is no shame in it. It is no simple task to lead a tumen. Many lives rest in your hands.”

 

“You?” Khutulun says, “You were frightened? Our Khan’s golden son?”

 

“Do not let Jinghim hear you say that!” Byamba says. His half brother had already sulked in his quarters for days when he had learned Byamba would go to war while the prince was left at the palace with his numbers and letters.

 

“Our Khan favors you,” Khutulun says, shrugging, “You always do as he says and you do it well. He prefers you for that reason. If you had been his true born son -”

 

“Be silent,” Byamba says, “What you say could be taken as treason if heard by the wrong ears.

 

“There is no one near but us, Byamba,” Khutulun says. She watches his face but he is stone, his jaw clenched, his eyes raised so that he looks at nothingness. “No one knows how to curry favor as you do. You deserve better for your loyalty and service.”

 

“I do as I was instructed to do,” Byamba says, “I understand my place. My mother taught me well.”

 

Khutulun glances at him and then stares at the bottom of the pool, waiting. No one had asked after him when his mother died the year prior. Only his father had touched his shoulder, briefly the morning following her death. A gentle grace and nothing more for the woman the Khan had once favored, the woman who had given him her life and a son. It was acceptable though. Byamba had wanted silence. It was easier that way to hide the bitterness he did not wish to feel.

 

Byamba says no more to Khutulun. Just as suddenly as the urge to speak about his mother came, it is gone.

 

“You do as you must. Our Lord Khan holds you in high regard,” Khutulun says. Then she tosses her braids over her shoulder and dives under the water again.

 

Byamba watches her hazy form swim around him. He begins moving towards the edge of the rocks. His arms are long and the water is shallow. He pulls himself easily up and over the stone. He dries himself as he watches Khutulun follow him.

 

She had slide in easily but has difficulty climbing out. Her small hands slip on the wet rocks. He watches her muscles flex vainly as she scrambles to find purchase on the edge of the hot spring.

 

“Help me,” Khutulun says, reaching her hand up to him. He pauses. She is strong, could easily pull herself out of the water. She is persistent, holding her arm out for him to take. He widens his stance; firmly rooting himself to the ground, lest she tries to pull him into the hot spring as he suspects is her true intent.

 

He grips her hand, trying to ignore how warm her palm is or how fast his heart has become. Khutulun climbs to stand before him, her eyes watching his.

 

He sees her foot slip before she feels the loss of equilibrium. Byamba grabs her elbows, tugging. Her reflexes prevent her from falling against him but she still comes close to him. His skin seems to pulse at her proximity. He feels himself watching the droplets of water running down her face, down her neck to the bare skin of her chest. He envies the water, wishes he could touch and trace their trail.

 

She notices how near he is as well, sees his eyes on her body. She pulls her elbow from his hand. Byamba’s hand lingers, running down the muscle of her forearm until she laces their hands together.

 

She stares at their entwined fingers for a moment before lifting her eyes to his. He sees her cheeks rise as she smiles. She tightens her grip on his, asking, “You want to touch me, don’t you Byamba?”

 

He jerks away from her. “Forgive me. That was improper.”

 

She nods, her mouth twisting sardonically at his words, “Very improper. We should return.”

 

“Yes,” Byamba says.

 

Neither move. His heartbeat is like thunder in his ears as he reaches for her with his free hand. Her skin is warm from the hot spring. Her eyes close as his touch rises up, past her arm to her neck. His fingers spread, pulling her close. His stomach burns with something primal.

 

They move closer and he swears his skin hums with anticipation. She lifts their joined hands, bringing them to her chest, gripping tightly. He glances down, surprised by the tender gesture. Impatience runs heavily through his blood and he leans in to accept her kiss.

 

Both are shy first. Their lips brush gently. Then, the surprise of the situation fades. Byamba feels himself pressing against her, holding her close. When she responds by wrapping her arms around his neck, all reason deserts him. His kisses become more insistent and careless.

 

She tugs at him, pulling him down onto the warm rocks. He yanks at the cloths they had brought to dry themselves, bundling one for her to rest her head on. Her mouth does not leave his, her lips unpracticed and wet. His hands shake as they roam against her flank, her hips, and her thighs. He feels her legs spread so she can press against him. She desires him. He is lost.

 

A noise of protest rumbles in his chest when she pulls away. Khutulun moves to tear at their clothes, frantic. Her skin soft and pliant against his, already tense in ecstasy.

 

In the corners of his mind where more rational thought remains, he knows he should stop. Yet the steam from the hot spring clings to his skin like fog in a desert and he finally touching the skin he has yearned to touch and holding the girl he had only dreamed of holding. There is nothing in the world but Khutulun.

 

His hands stroke her form, curious at the new flesh under their touch. Her hands move too, direct in their purpose. He gasps when she takes hold of his length. Her hand strokes and cups and massages with enthusiasm.

 

Her mouth slips away from his to press against his neck, ears, and jaw. Her spare hand pulls at his hair. He watches her. Khutulun’s eyes are closed. Her mouth feels swollen from their kisses. Her body strains to touch his.

 

She strokes herself between her legs and he feels his own hand moving to join hers, spreading the wetness. Her nails dig into his thigh as she pulls him towards her. He feels himself pressed against her entrance, Khutulun pulls him towards her, unable to make the final thrust that will join them.

 

Byamba is much too hasty. Khutulun cries out when he enters her. Warm blood seeps into the space between them when he moves. He knows not how to alleviate her pain so he freezes like a scared desert hare.

 

Khutulun wraps her legs around his waist, immobilizing him. Byama knows his heavy form crushes her but she does not release him. Her ribs expand, inhaling, as his shrink and exhale. He focus on their complementary breathing, calming as he feels her relax.

 

Byamba wipes away the stray tears which have slipped from her tightly closed eyelids. She breathes sharply just before she wraps her arms about his neck, throwing her weight against him so that they flip and she is atop him.

 

When Khutulun begins to move, it is not graceful. She claws at the rocks beneath his head for support, her movements uncoordinated by inexperience. Her nails dig into his skin but he barely feels pain. Byamba moves to help her but is useless. Finally she discovers how to effectively twist her hips.

 

It is over quickly. Byamba feels when he is about to lose himself and he knows it is too soon. Mercifully, he sees Khutulun reach between them to touch herself. She cries out and collapses on his chest, seconds before he finishes.

 

His mother had once preached to him of the fire that consumed lovers. It was a folly, she said, it made one blind to pain, sorrow, better instinct. It had seemed like a fever dream. Byamba had never been able to imagine it yet he know he has just experienced it.

 

Like any fire, there is smoke to choke those who come too close to it. Byamba feels as though his lungs are being crushed when he realizes what he has done.

 

Khutulun lay by his side in his arms, her hands stroking his shoulder where she scratched him. She is repeating his name in his ear. Her body is so close to his, they seem to share a heartbeat. There is a catch in her voice, a gentle shudder. It is nothing more than a slight change of tone, yet it holds emotions he has never heard from her. The implications in her utterance pull him more completely from his haze.

 

He begins to notice benign details. Her tunic is eschewed, covering one of her breasts while exposing the other. His leg is numb from being pressed against the stones. The steam from the spring is stifling him of his breath.

 

Byamba becomes still. Khutulun presses against him, unable to grasp that his attention is elsewhere. Her feet, remarkably cold, slip between his calves, her arms thrown across his belly. Her mouth still explores his neck albeit with less crazed insistence than it had previously. She murmurs his name again and he pulls away.

 

She is knocked over by his sudden movement, her face still in the space kissing where he no longer is, her body pushing towards him, only for a split second before she finds herself. Her eyes fly open and she sits up, her features distorted in confusion.

 

“That was very improper,” Byamba says when he finds his tongue. His mother’s words have risen from their grave in his mind. He must not burden her thus.

 

“I have no similar regrets.” Khutulun says, smiling shyly, “I would be lying if I said I had not brought you here with some intent.”

 

She reaches for his hand but he stands, straightening his tunic.

 

“You are wrong,” Byamba says, rubbing his neck, “It was shameful.”

 

He feels like there is a noose about his neck. His face contort with disgust at himself. How could be so careless? He sees Khutulun take in his expression and too late, he realizes she thinks his disgust is aimed at her.

 

Her brow falls, angry creases forming around her eyes. She fumbles as she pushes her tunic down to cover herself. She wraps herself in the cloth which previously pillowed her head, her skin burning with embarrassment.

 

He cannot explain. All he can think to say to her is, “You cannot understand. You are not even a woman yet.”

 

Khutulun struggles to her feet,  “Don’t let me force myself on you.”

 

He uses the wrong words. He knows this, wants to give her better. Yet, there is nothing he can think to say to her, not even as she jumps to her feet and stomps off.

 

"You know not for what you ask," Byamba says long after she is gone.

 

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VI

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The first strike does not draw blood. The Khan's knuckles pound the soft flesh around the man's eyes. The messenger kneels before the Khan, unprepared for the Khan's sudden anger. The blow lands hard. The seconds strike hits the same mark. The third hit meets the junction the man's skull and jaw. Bones separate, sending a grotesque noise through the hall filled with silent courtiers.

 

The fourth blow draws blood. The Khan's fingers are heavy with gold rings which shatter bone and flesh when they meet the messenger’s mouth. That is when blood splatters from wounds, drops falling onto the dress of nearby court ladies, who primly step back.

 

The messenger stiffens, raises his arms instinctively, but does not return nor block the blows. To do so would result in certain execution.

 

The Khan lifts his foot, stomping on the messenger's ribs, again and again and again. Byamba shudders, looking down at his feet so he may close his eyes. Despite his efforts, he can still hear the sound of bone breaking and the noise of strikes crushing flesh.

 

The Khan grows tired. He kicks the messenger's knees, turning away. The messenger rolls, clawing at the floor to escape. Then, as if thinking of something, the Khan kicks the messenger twice more, once in the flank and again on the back of the knees. Only then is it done.

 

Byamba raises his head. He reaches out, removing the false porcelain from Ahmed’s hands. It had been the young boy’s appraisal which had inspired the Khan’s fury and Ahmed watches the scene before him with vacant eyes. Byamba tucks the porcelain, an inadequate tribute from a defeated tribe into a corner, lest it anger his father again.

 

The Khan looks around at his court, his eyes wide and crazed. There is absolute silence save for the groaning of the messenger and the labored breathing of the Khan. Holding up his blood soaked hands, the Khan gestures for a servant to bring him a clean cloth. A young girl comes quickly, kneeling deeply. She bends her head and holds her hands forward in supplication, as she presents the cloth. The servant girl’s small body shakes as the Khan takes the towel.

 

Tears flow through the girl's tightly closed eyes as she waits for the Khan to return the cloth. Byamba drops his gaze again, certain his father will beat her as well.

 

The Khan does not appear to notice the girl, nor does he seem to see the courtiers around him. He drops the cloth on the floor when his hands are clean, pointing to Byamba, “Come here, my son.”

 

Byamba’s torso throbs as he stands, his movements stiff from the bandages he still wears. His legs are weak as kindling and despite Byamba’s efforts to look strong, the Khan reaches out to support him.

 

Jinghim, from his place in the crowd, watches. Byamba know well why; it had set the tongue of the court wagging. Byamba, the bastard son of a lesser consort, had been given a place on the Khan’s step. Meanwhile, Jinghim is still forced to stand in their father's court with lesser lords and ladies. Jinghim strokes his broken arm, a recent battle injury from their Seige of the Bayut tribe, eyes narrowed at his limping half-brother.

 

“Come with me, my son,” the Khan says again. Byamba rests his arm around his father and the Khan holds his weak son tightly. The Khan begins leading Byamba into a small antechamber.“Come.”

 

Jinghim begins to follows. The khan raises his hand. It is an idle threat. The Khan's arms are as weak as his will. But Jinghim still cowers. The messenger’s blood is still drying on the Khan's knuckles.

 

“Did I speak to you boy?” the Khan snaps, “This is a conversation for men.”

 

The Khan’s eyes flicked on Jinghim for a moment and then he leads Byamba into the antechamber. Byamba glances back to see Jinghim shoving his way through the courtiers.

 

The antechamber holds a few simple cushions and a small table. It is the area designated for messengers and nobles to wait until the Khan is ready to receive them. His father helps him onto a cushion before the Khan flings himself onto another soft surface. The Khan sighs, enormously, rubbing his temples with stained fingers.

 

Byamba does not know what to say so he says what his mother would have wanted him to say, “No one should disrespect the Khan.”

 

His father’s eyes fall onto him but it seems as if the Khan does not see Byamba. The Khan says, voice hoarse, “I was justified, was I not?”

 

“You spared their lives,” Byamba says, “They gave you cheap porcelain in return for your grace.”

 

“Let them see the true fury of Kublai Khan,” his father says, nodding, “Let their messenger take back this news.”

 

“Yes,” Byamba says, “I will give my fastest horse to the messenger. We must tell this tribe that we expect better. Will you allow me to have my servants care for the messenger so to hasten the message?”

 

“That would be wise," Kublai says, "Do that, my son.”

 

Byamba bites his cheek. It is still a novelty that his father calls him son. Before the siege of the Bayut, he had no such title in the Khan’s eyes. He was simply one of the Khan’s many children, cared for but forgotten. He had served the Khan before but no act had earned his more of his father's graces.

 

“As you wish, my Khan,” Byamba says. He tries to bow but the movement is hindered by his wrappings and by pain. The Khan watches Byamba shuffling, his eyes intent on his son’s torso.

 

“How do you fare, my son?” the Khan asks.

 

“I am well,” Byamba says, “As soon as I am able, I will wield my sword for your honor and purpose again.”

 

“They told me you would die, that you lay in your ger, a spirit merely trapped amongst the living. Here you are, despite their warnings,” the Khan says, “How do you explain this?”

 

Byamba cannot explain it. He had dreamt of endless blue skies and vast fields, heard whispers from unseen faces telling him to surrender. He had seen himself as a small child on horseback for the first time.  He had seen himself as a boy wrestling with Khutulun while her brothers cheered for her victory. He had seen his mother.

 

When he closes his eyes, he sees her still, dying. In her final moment, he had held her like she was a child. There were no whimpering last words, no declarations of love, nor defeated countenance. She had tucked her head down, closed her eyes, and breathed her last. As she was in life, she was in death: silent, dignified, accepting of her fate.

 

“The Eternal Blue wishes for me to serve you,” Byamba says, “and I shall, until the end of my days.”

 

“As you served me during the siege of the Bayut tribe.”

 

“Yes,” Byamba says.

 

“Do you know why you sit on my steps while Jinghim my heir stands amongst my lords and ladies?” the Khan asks. “Hm?”

 

“I do not know,” Byamba says.

 

“You proved your loyalty to me,” the Khan says, “Do you not recall? You watched as my guard was ambushed. You came to my aid, despite being woefully outnumbered. You nearly fell in your attempts to protect your khan. My own heir did not notice my misfortune as you did. That is the kind of man who should be by my side.”

 

“It is an honor I humbly accept.”

 

“Show me your loyalty again. Speak without pretense with me,” the Khan says, “What do you think of my cousin Kaidu? I see you spending time with his daughter. Do you know his mind?”

 

Byamba winces at the mention of Khutulun. She had not even been able to look at him in the days following their encounter at the hot spring. Even now, her visage haunts him. He feels ill at the very thought of his actions.

 

“I cannot say that I do,” Byamba says.

 

“There are whispers he defies me, that he believe himself better suited for my throne than I or any other,” the Khan says, “Men are fools. They know not what they desire for.”

 

Byamba remembers the words Khutulun had said that night in the water. She thought Jinghim weak. How did she so easily speak treason if it were not condoned by her father?

 

“You are the only true Khan,” Byamba says, “Kaidu and Khutulun know this.”

 

The Khan nods and Byamba feels cold as if he had betrayed his father. They were the words of a child, Byamba tells himself, Nothing more. Not worthy of note.

 

“Go and rest,” the Khan says, “I will need you again soon.”

 

Byamba nods and stands. The gash in his side aches as he moves but he cannot bring himself to notice. They were the words of a child, he tells himself over and over.

 

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VII

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He does not keep the vow he makes to his mother. He fights in many battles and takes many victories. His father rewards him generously. Horses and gold are lavished on him. However, rumors bring knowledge to Kublai's ears. Upon hearing that Byamba has never laid with a woman, the Khan becomes insistent he accept a different reward.

 

“With a sword like yours, I would have assumed you had deflowered half the girls in Cambulac,” the Khan says, laughing as his son blushes. His father slaps him hard on the back and says in Byamba’s ear, “Leave this to me. I will find a woman worthy of you.”

 

“You need not fear," his friend assures him when Byamba confides in the man after much pestering, "There are ways to prevent such things. Do as I say. I know you are a general but you must do what is most unnatural. Withdraw your troops before victory.”

 

That night, many men surround Byamba’s ger. They whistle and make obscene gestures when they see him. Byamab notices a fire is burning in his tent and a shadow moves within. This is a test from his father, he tell himself. It allows him to force the promise he made to his mother away from awareness.  

 

With tongue in cheek, they call her the Golden Lotus. All Byamba can recall from the night is that she had been gifted with immense patience. This had been of great benefit to Byamba. Like most youths, he had been unbearably inexperienced. He had fumbled, nearly bloodied her when he became tangled in furs and fell upon her, and twice, he had lost himself too early. The next day, however, she sings his praise to the Khan. Byamba is given ten horses for honoring his father.

 

There are other women too.

 

There is a concubine from his father's harem who teach him with gentle hands and a lustful tongue. He commits her instruction to memory. There is the chambermaid whose kiss stole his very breath. They had shared many fond moments in hidden corners. There is court lady who so inflamed him, he reduced his bedsheets to scraps in his frenzy. His time with her keep him warm on many lonely nights on the warpath. He holds the memories of the women close even after they are gone.

 

Yet he does not give them everything. They have his kisses, his thoughts, his embrace, his affections. Yet, he always holds back, always pulls away.

 

This allows him to settle his mind on the disconnect between his actions and his word to his mother. He adheres to the advice of his friend. He sires no bastards.

 

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VIII

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His favorite horse, the stead which carried him to the Karakorum, favors a handful of oats at night and Byamba goes to the task. It is preferable to pacing in his tent, wondering and imagining and fretting over things which does not concern him.

 

The night is cool and pleasant. Most of the capital’s inhabitants are asleep. The feast held in his father’s honor ended hours ago. A pile of animal bones by the fireside are all that remain of the celebration which his father had chosen to forgo.

 

His mare pokes her head through the corral when he comes near. Byamba smiles as she presses her wet nose against his hand. He opens his fist so that she may eat her treat. The horse crunches loudly on the oats but not so loudly he does not hear another approaching.

 

“Byamba,” Khutulun says. She comes to stand next to him. He hands her some oats and watches as she holds them out to feed her own approaching horse.

 

“Khutulun,” he says. Earlier, he had been so angry he could barely speak, let alone look at her. In spite of everything, it pleases him that he is no longer reduced to idiocy at her very presence, “Does sleep allude you too?”

 

“My sister’s children have taken to sleeping in my ger,” Khutulun says, “They are fond of waking in the middle of the night and pouncing on me like cats as I slumber.”

 

She glances at him out of the corner of her eyes, expectantly. Byamba scratches his horse’s nose, his gaze intent on his fingers as they brush across his mare’s hair. Khutulun turns, leaning against the corral, her shoulder brushing against his arm as she moves.

 

He feels no response to the contact. No dull ache in his stomach. No strange hum under his skin. This pleases him too.

 

“And you,” Khutulun says. She moves so that their eyes might meet but he turns, reaching for a tool to clean his horse’s hooves. She makes a soft noise before saying, “Why do you find yourself awake?”

 

Byamba ducks under the planks of the corral. He kneels by his mare, realizing only after her back hoof is in his hand that he had already picked the stones and debris earlier in the day. Byamba checks her feet again, pulling at nothing to cover his lapse.

 

“Perhaps you have the gout?” Khutulun asks. Her voice is sharp.

 

Byamba chuckles but they both can hear how false the noise is, “My father does suffer. I saw his inflamed toe myself.”

 

“Of course,” Khutulun says. She turns, facing away from him before settling against the corral again, “My father would have crossed the Gobi with two broken legs if the Khan called upon him. I suppose we cannot expect the same courtesy.”

 

Byamba drops his horse’s hoof and moves to stand behind her. He whispers, “Do not pretend as if your father is a beacon of loyalty.”

 

She turns to him, eyes narrowed. When she speaks, her tone is a warning, “What do you mean?”

 

Byamba takes a deep breath to center himself. He has no cause to be angered by her choices. If she desires the Latin, then that is her decision. “I mean only that your father should not speak so freely, particularly with regard to Jinghim. The Khan would find no humor in his words this night.”

 

Khutulun faces him, her hand on the corral so tight, her knuckles turn white, “My father is not a traitor. You should be more worried about your own kin. Our Lord Khan should know better than to scorn his loyal family with absence.”

 

“The concubines in the harem bickered like you and your father do over who received the most of the Khan’s attention,” Byamba says grinding his teeth, “You should know their arguments gained them no favor either.”

 

“My father is Kublai Khan’s cousin and the grandson of Oggodei Khan,” Khutulun snaps, “He should not have to beg for an audience.”

 

A pair of guards on rounds walk past them. They are several steps away but Byamba sees them turn and look. Byamba nods and one of the guards returns the gesture before he and his companion continue on their way.

 

“Do not - ” Byamba says. He stops himself because he knows she will not listen.

 

“You are concerned for me?” Khutulun asks. Her voice is strained with a hint of scorn when she replies, “How endearing.”

 

“You have become,” Byamba says, meticulously searching for his words, “occasionally careless.”

 

Her eyebrows knit. She turns more fully to face him. To Byamba’s regret, he feels his blood hum. Only the wooden beams of the corral separate them.

 

“How do you mean?” Her eyes fall on his free hand which has begun to writhe nervously, very much against his will. Byamba combs his mare’s mane with his fingers to give himself something to do, “What weighs on your mind?"

 

"There is nothing weighing on my mind," Byamba replies. He scratches his mare behind the ear as he knows the horse likes. The beast tosses her head, happy at his attention. Khutulun nods, picking at splinters on the corral. Without warning, he blurts, “The Latin is a fool and so are you.”

 

Khutulun scoffs, “That is what causes your unease with me?”

 

"You do not understand,” Byamba says, “His position in this court is tenuous, at best. You do not know what you are doing. You have always been protected by your father's favor. You do not know how the true nature of things."

 

Khutulun faces him, her features stiff with fury. "Perhaps you are right. My position and my father have always granted me leniency but do not mistake me for a fool," Her voice is still a whisper but her tone makes it clear that if she could shout without drawing attention, she would. "We were not seen. It was pleasure and nothing more. Your friend is in no danger.”

 

Byamba pulls his mare’s brush down from its hook. He is not a child and he wishes to speak honestly. Yet, he is busy combing the horse’s hair when he says, “He is not my only concern.”

 

“I am of no concern to you,” Khutulun snaps.

 

Byamba sighs. He knows this. Why does he need reminding? "Of course. Forgive me. It is not my place."

 

His mare sniffs at his clothes, her bright brown eyes watching as Byamba combs her hair. Byamba strokes his horse’s nose. Khutulun inspects her horse’s teeth, pointedly avoiding Byamba’s eyes until she releases her horse. She gently pushes Byamba’s hands away from his mare so that he is forced to look at her.

 

“Is it truly not your place to speak honestly with me?” Khutulun says. Byamba attempts to stare above her head but she stands on her toes so that he cannot distract himself, “Will you always hid behind your father’s will? Tell me, Byamba. I would never betray you. What do you wish?”

 

“I desire only to serve my father,” Byamba says.

 

Khutulun rolls her eyes, “Is that all?”

 

“No,” Byamba says on a whim. Khutulun watches him but he does not feel her eyes on him. His mind is in a field with vultures circling. The flesh of his shoulder, the place where the arrow at Wuchang had struck, is not yet a scar and it aches as he ponders, “I also wish for a time when I may choose my own path.”

 

“A wife? Children?” Khutulun says. She mirrors the expression he gives her, “I know you well,” She nods, smiling ruefully “Yes. You deserve a good wife, one who will wait for you to return from battle, one who will feed you and keep you home warm and raise your children well. Someone who you can easily give your love to. A beautiful woman who you will be pleased to have in your bed.”

 

“You are correct,” Byamba says, “I wish for a family of my own.”

 

She looks up to see him watching her. Her cheeks grow red and her eyes are bright as she looks away.

 

He had starred along with the Latin when she had wrestled earlier that evening. Fifteen older brothers had taught her to be fierce. She had been impressive. Now he can admit he watched for different reasons. She was regal, her sharp features taking after her father. Yet she was still coltish, with her long limbs and thin body.

 

When her mouth curls at him, he feels a sense of peace at the familiar expression. Her smile is unchanged, too.

 

“And you?” Byamba asks, “What do you desire, Princess Khutulun?”

 

“Me?” Khutulun says, smirking at her title, “When one is inexperienced, they must loose many stray arrows before they can find their intended target. However, perhaps one day after I have demonstrated myself as a warrior, I will allow a man to best me and raise a ger with him.”

 

“Do you have an intended?” Byamba asks.

 

“Yes,” Khutulun says, “He has yet to challenge me though.”

 

“Do I know him?”

 

Khutulun shrugs, “I am not sure. One day, he will see himself as the man he is. Then, I can only hope he joins me in the ring.”

 

“May he come to his sense quickly.”

 

“He must,” Khutulun says, pulling herself up so that she may sit on the top of the corral, “My father grows most impatient.”

 

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The steam feels cleansing when he breathes deeply. Moisture already begins to collect on his skin so he removes his clothing, placing each folded piece high on the rocks away from the water. After tying a cloth tightly around his waist, he sinks into the hot water. He unwinds his braids and cleans his hair of dirt and grime. Just as he begins to contemplate leaving, he hears footsteps.

 

“I thought I might find you here,” Khutulun says. She weaves gracefully around the rocks to stand by the edge of the water. He does not miss how her eyes seem to look across his person. “Did you tire of camp and wish for reprieve?”

 

“Indeed. If I had to hear one more braggart claim he had one of the Khan’s consort or smell one more unwashed body, I fear I would swallow my own blade,” Byamba says, “Would you care to join me in wonderful silence?”

 

Khutulun watches him for a moment before bending to removed her boots. Her legs are long and her skin looks smooth to the touch. Byamba chews his tongue to distract himself from the thought. He stares at the watery outlines of his toes and counts loudly in his head, not realizing for several seconds that Khutulun is speaking to him.

 

“What did you say?” Byamba asks.

 

Khutulun lounges, swinging her legs in the warm water, "I was merely recalling an incident from our childhood. Perhaps you remember too," Khutulun says, pausing for effect, "There was a vase involved?"

 

He knows immediately what she refers to. Empress Chabi had been gifted a massive porcelain vase, a piece with an impressive, intricate blue design upon its surface that had mesmerized Byamba. So intrigued had he been, that he often snuck away to explore the design which features a battle scene in a mythical land with dragons and women with wings and the body of lions.

 

"You broke the vase," Khutulun says, "Correct?"

 

"Indeed," Byamba says. He had been a small child at the time with strength he did not fully realize. He lowers his voice as he adds, "I was never punished for my crime."

 

"I know. No one saw you but I knew it was you. The ladies in the court complained you were constantly putting your hands on it," Khutulun says, "So I told them I had done it."

 

"What?"

 

"It is true."

 

“Were you punished?”

 

“Yes. My father believed in discipline. My weary attendant was enthusiastic at the task.”

 

"Why did you do this Khutulun?"

 

"Your mother was dying. This was known throughout the court," Khutulun says, "You looked like a shadow of yourself. I did not wish for you to feel lonely. I hoped you would feel you had a ally."

 

This is also true. His mother had listen to him describe the vase and they had sat upon her bed, making up stories about the scene he had seen. He knows now that his mother had done so to stop him from asking after her sudden dizzy spells and long sleeps she often partook in.

 

"You were a strange child," Byamba says. Khutulun looks at him, her eyebrows set into a glare but he ignores her. He feels a strange new resentment, "You wished for me to think you a friend and yet you never told me of your role in this incident?"

 

"I wished to be close to you," Khutulun says, "Yet I did not want to force myself upon you. You seemed to dislike my company."

 

Byamba hangs his head, weary, "I know to what you refer. My mother was guarded in her actions and I know I took after her."

 

He recalls all the sweating palms, all the shivers of excitement, all the stomach pains Khutulun's very presence had inspired. He feels himself grinning after the very thought that at any point in his life, he did not wish for Khutulun to be near him.

 

“What makes you laugh?” Khutulun asks.

 

Byamba shakes his head, “I apologize if I have ever made it seem as if I did not desire your company. Nothing could be further from the truth.”

 

Khutulun is silent for a moment before she says, “You may always have my company, Byamba.”

 

There is something in her voice, a slight undertone which unsettles him. He says, “Have I said something to displease you?”

 

“Do not mind me. I am a fool,” Khutulun says.

 

“A fool?”

 

"Yes,” Khutulun says, closing her eyes, “I hope for things that cannot happen no matter how much I wish for it."

 

He moves through the water towards her, leaning against the rock. She does not look him in the eye but he feels the need to explain himself nonetheless. He has warped the promise he had made so many years ago but the vow remains, “Years ago, I swore to my mother I would only give myself to one woman - ”

 

“Very good,” Khutulun says, interrupting him. She glances at him and then her eyes wander to the rocks again. He fears her has mistaken her words until she says, “I hope you find her.”

 

His pulse thunders in his ears but he finds the courage to say, “I had hoped that I already had. She need only accept my challenge and I would be hers until the end of my days.”

 

Khutulun stares away from him for so long that he thinks she might not have heard him, “She would not be easy to deal with. Many have told her so. She would be stubborn, she would never be settled or domestic, and your children would not doubt be imbued with all her worst traits.”

 

Byamba laughs, both out of relief and at the very idea of her as his wife. It is a humorous idea, to raise a ger with Khutulun. He cannot even begin to imagine her performing any remotely wifely duties. Yet the thought makes him giddy like a small child.

 

“I would have it no other way,” Byamba says.

 

"She would be a pain," Khutulun adds, her eyes weary as he moves closer to her, "Constantly at odds with you, stuck in her ways. You would easily grow frustrated with her.""

 

"I accept her challenge. She need only show me she accept mine," He reaches out to touch her but she stands, moving away from him with a quickness that makes his stomach turn. She picks up her boots from their place on the stones, tossing her braid over her shoulder as she looks down upon him.

 

“This woman of whom you speak. When she appears, I hope you will not be indecisive.”

 

These are her wishes. He wants to honor them but he still finds himself pulling himself out of the hot spring, “Khutulun.”

 

She turns but makes no move to close the distance between them, her eyes on his.

 

“You are an able warrior,” Byamba says. “Accept my challenge. Battle me.”

 

Her eyes fall to the stones upon which they stand and he knows she thinks of that night they had first lain together. He knows her thoughts; they are close reflections of his own. Perhaps it is for the best they are no longer close. Perhaps that is the manner of things. Perhaps fate spoke clearly and they should listen. She closes her eyes tightly and leaves without another word.

 

.

.

.

 

She begins to look for his eyes in the crowd, both to see his reaction to events and to share silent looks. He grows to anticipate the night when he knows to expect her arrivals for a long conversation on what is transpiring around them. Age makes conversing with her easier.

 

Then, the day in the dusty sand and blazing sun arrives. She allows him to pin her. He knows it is not a fair fight. She becomes too light in his arms. He wishes to discuss it with her but she disappears into the cheering crowd, remains hidden when he goes to find her later.

 

A day and a night pass. He thinks only of her, even as battle looms.

 

He does not wish to see her pursuing the favor of other men and the thought of her married to another makes his blood burn and his heart cold. He is a fool. He had thought he had surrendered what little say he might have had in her decision years ago. Now, what he did not know he wanted could be his again.

 

He goes looking for her, his intent set. “Battle me,” he tells her.

 

It is a testament to their history that she needs no more explanation. He waits with bated breath for her response. He would understand if she scorned him. He had scorned her. He only hopes.

 

He leans forward despite the blade she holds between them but he waits. When her lips finally fall upon his, he is finally able to see a life outside of serving his father’s will until the vultures come.

 

 

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IX

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.

 

It is late in the night. He listens to the noise of his restless horse kicking a spray of sand onto the walls of his tent. Beyond that he hears desert animal scurrying about and the shouts of the few rowdy nomads who resist sleep. Then, he hears her. He can’t be certain what it is about her tread which enables recognition but it does not surprise him. In her absence, every detail of her being had captured his every thought: the manner in which she spoke with the slightest moves of her face, the mesmerizing agility of her body, the feverishness of her touch on his skin.

 

Byamba sits up in his furs, watching her shadow by the doorway as she pauses outside the entrance of his . She flies into his tent, graceful and silent so not to be seen by passers-bys. She strips off her dusty boots and he holds up his furs for her to slip under.

 

Her body is warm and soft as she settles next to him, the feeling of her form by his deeply comforting. When she speaks, it is in a whisper, “I should have known you were too unlucky to die. Now we are trapped.”

 

Even as she says the words, her hands touch his flesh, looking for injury.

 

“Trapped indeed,” Byamba says, his own voice low. He admires the outline of her form in the moonlight from the hatch atop his ger.

 

There is no need to ask why she is suddenly so secretive. Her father had been distant at the banquet, albeit with a pained look in his eyes as he had politely asks after Byamba’s voyage across the steppe. Byamba understood; he was no longer simply Kaidu’s future son-in-law. He was now the very loyal offspring of a potential enemy. Even Byamba had been unsettled by Kaidu’s public display of rebellion.

 

For now, he and Khutulun are together. She rubs her calf against his, wrapping her leg around his and pulling closer. As she tilts towards him to press her body against his when her knees glances against one of his fresh wounds. He had allowed the healers only the most cursory of examination before he had ridden to her. The flesh throbs at the contact and he winces in spite of himself.

 

Khutulun pulls away. Her fingers move gently over his body, her head shaking, “I should have been by your side.”

 

He is uncertain how to respond. Argument could be made against either of their fathers. The matter weighing on both their minds settles into the silence between them until she speaks again.

 

“There were rumors of black powder and machines which threw fire through the walls of Xiangyang,” Khutulun says.

 

”The Latin’s machine threw the fire. Without his ingenuity, there would have been no victory for our Lord Khan,” Byamba replies.

 

“And the black powder? Was that real too?”

 

“Yes. When the wall fell, Jia Sidao's men took us by surprise with weapons of fire. They killed many soldiers. My own brother nearly fell before the wall,” Byamba replies.

 

“Yet you saved him from an enemy’s blade, did you not? You and Jinghim must have been on the forefront of the battle?” She can see his eyes squinting, curious at her words. Khutulun adds, “There was a rumor that Master Marco came to our prince’s aid. I did not believe it.” She chuckles as he bows his head, “I am right, aren't I? You were always so modest. I never understood why.”

 

“I know better than to take credit for saving my brother’s life, not because I do not have an ego.

After all my years as a bastard in the court of the Khan of Khans, I have come to realize that even the most noble of achievement does not alleviate the burden of my birth. Thus, I merely choose to allow another, more needy soul, to have the honor.”

 

She leans close, so near they seem to share the same breath, “If you stayed in Karakorum, you would not simply be a bastard. You would be what my father says you are and what he says is that you are a powerful warrior, worthy enough to wed me and be his son.”

 

He hears her every word, words he has longed to hear all his life. In his youth spent dodging the glance of higher nobles, her promise would have been only a vision. It need not be a dream any longer, he thinks. He could be a warrior, a husband. He need not be just a bastard.

 

“We would fight, side by side,” Khutulun says, “and one day, my father would pass unto us his khanate and we would lead the House of Ögedei.”

 

He is silent. He has heard rumors that Kaidu wishes to bequeath his holdings to his daughter, his favorite child, despite her many eligible male relatives. It would be extraordinary and yet, he can imagine it easily.

 

He chuckles, both at her fanciful words and his own strange giddiness. “Years and years with you?” Byamba says. He shudders.

 

Her face becomes a mask of false protest but before she can respond, his lips are on hers. After a moment of surprise, he feels her arms rising up from underneath the blankets to hold him tightly, her chest against his so that he feels her heart beating. She is not off guard for long, her lips prying his apart so that she may attack his mouth with her tongue and teeth.

 

She presses until she sits astride him. Rising tall, she pulls at her clothes until her skin is bare, luminescent in the light. He reaches up to touch her, to stroke her smooth skin and to feel the softness of her breasts and the curves of her thighs and the angles of her face. She watches him under hooded eyes, pressing against his touch in encouragement.

 

“Perhaps it wouldn’t be so disagreeable,” Byamba says. His voice grows hoarse as she reaches past his clothing to stroke him. Her fingers are deft and he finds her ministrations much more satisfying than any he could have imagined in a reverie.

 

When her caressing becomes too much, he shove her off. She is surprised and he is easily able to pin her, one hand clutching both of hers above her head. Khutulun chuckles, her knees rising up on either side of him.

 

“Just like the day I won you, eh?” Byamba says.

 

“You think I let you best me because I am weak?” Khutulun says, flexing beneath him. The movement drags his eyes across her body and he takes in the sight of her like a man lost in the desert takes in a drink of water. “Why are you still dressed Byamba?”

 

“I am not sure,” he says, his hands fumbling until he is finally free of his restraints. He lops his arms under her knees and pulls her towards him.

 

The first time he thrusts himself into her, she is so warm and tight, he is certain he will lose himself immediately. She gasps, her face contorting at the simultaneous pain and pleasure. He pulls away, both to regain his control and to correct. He is much more aroused than she.

 

He falls between her legs. She watches him move, confused why he has stopped. Byamba tosses her legs over his shoulder, eyes bright, cavalier. He bends his head, tongue broad in its strokes as he buries his nose in her curls. The smell and taste of her is beyond anything he might have imagined in the moments alone or the hours pining for her on the warpath.

 

She is tense under his hands. Perhaps she is surprised. Perhaps no man has ever given her pleasure with his mouth like this. Yet he had grown up amongst the whispers of concubines and he knows how to alleviate her of this malady. He spreads her lips, kissing her tender flesh until she begins to sigh. Then he begins to use his hands as well.

 

It pleases him very much when he feels her muscles relax as her legs spread for him and her back arched in response to his work.

 

After several seconds, she is no longer quiet. The intent caress of his tongue and the coaxing of his fingers tear gasps and moans from her lovely mouth. She contorts on the furs, tilting her chin to the skies, messing her hair as she grinds against him.

 

"Khutulun," he says, his voice teasing. She whimpers particularly loudly in response to the twisting and deep thrusts of his fingers within her. "They will hear you."

 

He brushes his thumb against the pulsing flesh at the apex of her thighs as he speaks. She moans without abandon, her voice quivering as she says, "I don't care. Don't stop."

 

He frees one hand, pressing his fingers against her mouth. She opens her lips, suckling on the digits, her tongue tracing the outline of his fingers before she gently bites.

 

He sucks air through his teeth as he watches her. She sees him staring and her cheeks hollow as she pulls his finger deeper into her mouth. The sight makes him ache for her.

 

She buries her fingers in his hair and yanks, which pulls a chuckle from him. He moves obedient. Her eyes flutter when he sinks into her. This time she is supple. She does not release his fingers, looking up at him as she sucks, her eyes glinting with mirth.

 

He watches her face as he moves, memorizing her expressions. When he thrusts just so, he feels her quivering. Her face goes slack, her mouth uttering a silent mantra at his attention. He snaps his hips again, reveling in the sight of her coming undone. Her legs wrap around his waist, flexing in encouragement.

 

He will not last much longer so he pulls his hand away from her mouth, silencing her with open mouthed kisses. Her response is messy and chaotic, and he smiles against her lips. With his free hand, he touches the hard bundle of flesh between her legs until he feels her tighten around him. She digs her fingers into his back, her form stiff as she screams against his lips.

 

He pulls away, smug at the sight of her messed hair and sweating skin, “Bested again."

 

She smiles, the apples of her cheeks rising as her mouth curls and before he can blink, he is on his back and she is straddling him.

 

She sinks down upon him, her eyes widening as she takes him deep within her. She has muscles which he cannot see but feels and she uses them as she rolls and rises. He thinks that he does not mind this defeat. When she sees him laughing at his thoughts, she grips his pectoral and rides him, without restraint.

 

“Do not try to get away from me this time,” Khutulun says in his ear as she pin his arms above his head.

 

Gripping her waist, he takes in the sight of her: skin glistening, hair tangled, eyes focused solely on him as she furiously attempts to bring him to orgasm. He is not afraid as he once was. He feels only love, desire, and overwhelmingly lucky.

 

He lays his head back and climaxes, jutting his hips to makes her squeal one final time, as he marvels at his good fortune.

 

She collapses on his chest, catching her breath while he fondly strokes her back.

 

She kisses him and rolls off. He notices his seed trickling down her inner thigh and feels himself responding, with more lusty thoughts and a mild dread. His body is satisfied but his mind is not. He can already feel the call for more but for now, he watches as she falls asleep.

 

He curls his body against hers. His mind is light and airy like a cloud and he leans next to her ears, whispering, “My dreams pale in comparison to you.”

 

She closes her eyes tight, her mouth curling. His arm is wrapped around her chest and he feels her groan at his words. She nods her head into the furs, her breath forced into a slow, rhythmic cadence.

 

“I can conceive no greater cause in the world than to serve your every desire,” Byamba continues, “I would give you the sky.

 

“Do not become a poet, Byamba,” Khutuln says, “Promise me that.”

 

“You have my fidelity until my bones turn to dust,” Byamba promises.

 

She slaps at him to stop.

 

He holds her against his chest, reveling in the feeling of holding her. He waits, out of habit for the feeling of smoke to suffocate him. To his relief, there is none.

 

.

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VIII

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.

 

The tent flap falls into place. The cat calls fade as their wedding party disperses into the night. Khutulun groans, happy for the silence. She pulls her clothes off, allowing them to fall to the floor as she walks to their bed. Naked, she tosses herself across the soft furs. Beads on her headpiece, her final worn article, clatter as she sighs into the warm bed.

 

Byamba admires their new ger. He tests the wooden frame, examines the cloth walls, and checks the furniture Khutulun’s family gifted to them. It is all well built and will stand for many years. It is quite spacious and yet -

 

“I am thankful to Lord Kaidu and your family,” Byamba says, “Please do not takes the statement I will proceed to make as evidence of less, however. . .”

 

Khutulun lifts her head to watch him as he stands to his full height. If he stands too close to the walls of the ger, the top of his skull brushes against the top of the ger where it slopes downward.

 

Khutulun laughs, her body shaking so hard the beads on her headpiece knock against her forehead, “You must forgive my brothers. They built it, not knowing a giant would reside here.”

 

“It is not an issue. I will stand in the center. The roof is tall enough for me there,” Byamba says.

 

Byamba begins undresses himself. He puts his folded clothes in their chest. His ceremonial outfit is beautiful. First the thick coat of rich fur. It was a gift, from his surrogate family. One of the Lord of Kakorum step in as his parents for the ceremonies and celebrations.  “A small task for the hero of Xiangyang," the Lord had said with a wrinkled smile. The Lord's wife nodded too before insisting Byamba eats another helping of the goat she prepared for him.

 

Then, the silk deel. Byamba had been hesitant to touch the garment when it first presented to him. It seems such a waste now to simply leave the deel in a chest. Perhaps he will give it to another.  

 

Next the gilded belt his father had sent for him. A messenger had arrived only two days before. The Khan of Khans was structuring a new government for the new Song territory and could not attend. He would have liked to have had his father at his wedding. Byamba studies the animals  carved into the belt, symbols of fertility and prosperity, good omens for his marriage. This he wants to keep. He will pass it on to his sons and sons-in-law.

 

Last, the headpiece from Lord Kaidu himself. Byamba reminds himself to return it as soon as possible. It is much too fine for him to keep. As it stands, he had not felt worthy to wear it at all.

 

When he is finished, he turns to find Khutulun watching him, her eyes wandering across his body, appreciatively.

 

"I thought they would never leave us alone," Byamba says.

 

Khutulun snorts, rising to kneel upon the furs. The princess begins runs her hands through her hair. Her fingers search for the many strings and clasps holding her hair and headdress in place.

 

"Do not complain to me." Khutulun says. She yanks at the piece, pulling many strands of hair out. The headdress remains firm on her head. "You drank airag and ate meat with my brothers, cousins, and uncles. My aunts had me surrounded on all fronts."

 

Byamba comes to sprawl next to her on the bedding, stretching like a lazy cat. No trek nor warpath had ever left him so drained.

 

"There," Byamba says, pointing to the line of thread running along her roots, "Pull that and it will come loose."

 

She pulls but the line is strong. Her jerks pull again at her scalp and she sighs. “It has been woven into my skin.”

 

He tugs at her until her head is against his stomach and he can see her scalp. The night before and this morning, servants had spent hours sewing the headpiece into her hair. Her yanking had pulled several threads loose but the headpiece is unmovable. Using his nails, he plucks at the stitches, separating individual thread from hair.

 

"I saw you," Byamba says, biting his lip to hide a chuckle, "My apologies for not coming to your rescue."

 

He does regret leaving her to her kin. However, he had enjoyed her relatives. They had called him brother, with no pomp, no hesitation, no conditions, no contempt.

 

"I expect better husband," Khutulun says, tugging on the fine hairs of his belly. Her eyes are bright, the ruddy brown of her irises illuminated by the fire in their hearth.

 

He withers at the strange sensation and Khutulun smiles, pulling again. Byamba seizes her hands clutching them tightly. His wife laughs, her headpiece shaking in his hands. Byamba kisses her hands, promising, "I will be better, little wife. You deserve nothing less."

 

She smiles, burying her face in his chest. He plucks, undoing the hours of work Khutulun had endured at the hands of her attendants. There are dozens of plaits of hair and thread to be unwoven but finally, he is able to remove the headdress.

 

By the time she is free, her head has grown heavy on his belly. Khutulun's breath follows a steady cadence. His movements are stiff as he place the headdress in a safe place. Chest swelling, Byamba presses the pads of his fingers into her scalp, massaging the aching skin. As his lips brush against her crown, she stirs.

 

“My family gave me every herb and amulet under the blue sky. They asked after every detail of my body. My great aunt herself gave me demonstrations on positions. And do you know for what all that was for?”

 

“What was it for?” he asks, grinning, as he plucked stray strings from her hair.

 

“To give you a son. They gave me a battle strategy for tonight. I was already forced to drink a tea of stinging needles and red clover. Thankfully, today is the third day of my cycle. Now, presently, I must let you take me while I contort myself upside down."

 

Her head shakes as his belly shudders with laughter.

 

"We will have a dozen male children,” Byamba says.

 

"Yes," Khutulun says, "We must remedy our ger quickly as I will be the mother of giants if I can only keep my eyes open."

 

She yawns, raising her arms to play with his braided loop of hair. Her eyes brows lift with the slightest hint of suggestion.

 

“A son would be a blessing but I want a daughter just like you,” Byamba says.

 

"Sons. Daughters. It matters not to me. I only desire children that are as kind as you are," Khutulun says.

 

"And as brave as you are as well with the same boundless spirit.  And I implore all the spirits under the Eternal Blue, that they take after you in face and body too."

 

"I will do my best," Khutulun says. She plays with his beard, tilting her head curiously when his face becomes somber.

 

He shakes his head to alleviate her worry, “Mere weeks ago, I could never have even imagined you would have me. Now we are married.”

 

“Does it displease you how quickly it occurred?” Khutulun asks. She stops amusing herself with his hair, “No time for doubt?”

 

“I had no doubt,” Byamba tells her without hesitation, “I was eager to become your husband.”

 

He truly does not harbors any uncertainty on their nuptials. He merely wonders why they were so hasty. Kaidu had made arrangements quickly. None of the members of the court of Cambulac had even been present. It had been something of a relief. His life in Cambulac had been a stark contrast to his time in Karakorum. He does not wish to admit he might prefer the latter. It seems like a poor thought to have.

 

"At the banquet, your father asked me a strange question," Byamba tells Khutulun, “He took her aside, told me I was his son, as much as his any of his own blood children. Then, he asked me for whom I held more love: you or my father."

 

"What did you tell him?" Khutulun asks. He does not miss the change in her tone. Her question feels like a test, a challenge.

 

"I have different love for both of you and I could not compare them, in scope or any other way. I love my father as any son should. I respect him and honor all that he has provided me with. I will serve my father until my bones become brittle and I cannot hold a sword," Byamba says.

 

"Perhaps you should have married him," Khutulun says, her voice more offended than teasing. She begins to pull away from him, sitting up.

 

"Khutulun," Byamba says, taking her face in his hands, "I serve my father now so that I may give you the life that you deserve. That is what I desire now. Your father knows this.”

 

Khutulun listens then puffs her cheeks into his hands. Her face squash against his fingers and he laughs at the effect. She smiles again, turning to kiss his hands.

 

“I have loved you since I was a child,” Byamba adds so that his message is clear, “I have never wavered.”

 

“I know this,” Khutulun says, “I thought I might be old and sore before you gained the courage to act.”

 

.

.

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IX

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.

 

They spend the next several days on the steppe. Byamba had spent his childhood in the city of Cambulac and his youth in crowded war camps. To spend his time riding amongst flaxen grasslands and flawless blue sky is novelty, one that he quickly finds he enjoys immensely.

 

“Perhaps I shall become a herdsman. Then I may spend all my time under the Eternal Blue,” Byamba tells Khutulun one night. He roasts a pair of rabbits that they caught earlier. Between the two of them, they are proficient hunters. This small act of self-reliance pleases him too.

 

Khutulun smirks, looking up from the plants and berries they gathered in the days prior, “My husband is a soldier. He is too simple to be a herdsman.”

 

“Ah,” Byamba says. He cleans his hands and moves closer to her, “Is that a truth?”

 

“It is,” Khutlun says, turning her face to pointedly avoid him as he presses closer to her, “I did not realize this, to my misfortune, until after we were bound for life.”

 

“What a misfortune,” Byamba says, With a growl, he attacks, trapping her with both arms. He rubbing his beard against her neck where he knows she is ticklish. Khutulun shoves him but he persists and he is rewarded when she squirms in his arms.

 

Khutulun digs her fingernails into his arms, twisting and turning, fast as a desert cat to straddle him, her knees tight around his thighs. Her hair is tied in a bun upon her head, the strands wild from the wind and the sun. Byamba pulls the tie away so that he can run his fingers through the long locks. He kisses her stubborn jaw and cocky cheeks and impudent lips.

 

“Aye,” Khutulun says, “He is an idiot. Yet he is my idiot and he has his purpose.”

 

Away from the crowded village, they can have one another as often and wherever they please and they do. The sound of their pleasure mingles with the howls of wolves. Afterwards, a vast sky with bright stars and a clear moon cover them. There is nothing else in the world but Khutulun, her face luminescent by the light of the sky. It satisfies Byamba’s very spirit.

 

Yet, he finds his mind wanders back to Cambulac. The infinite fields of the steppe glow golden and reminds him of the glittering scales of the imperial guards’ armor. Sound travels easily but without definition, often allowing him to imagine he hears a distant army on the move. He finds himself planning for fictitious wars when they explore the mountains and he notices how simple it would be to defend the outcrops, a feature which could be used as a tactical advantage.

 

Even as he revels in his time with his new bride, he cannot escape the insistent feeling that something is amiss. It is force of habit, he assures himself. Byamba cannot recall a time when there was no war to plan nor a battle looming. After nearly a decade as a soldier, it feels almost unnatural.

 

It is for this reason that Byamba’s gut feels heavy as if he had swallowed a stone when they return to Karakorum and a rider comes to greet them as soon as they draw close.

 

“Lord Kaidu requires your immediate attention, Princess Khutulun,” the rider says, “He await you in your ger.”

 

Khutulun nods, her face surprised at first by the news. Byamba’s stomach aches as he watches her expression becomes serious for the first time in days. She says to him, “I believe I know what this concerns.”

 

“Tell me,” Byamba says.

 

“I may be incorrect,” Khutulun says, “I would only needlessly unsettle you. Let us see what my father wishes to discuss.” Then she digs her heels into her horse before he can make a more persistent inquiry.

 

Smoke rises from their tent as they approach. Byamba cares for their horses as Khutulun rushes to welcome her father. When he enters the ger, Byamba waits silently as his father-in-law stands to greet Khutulun with a customary sniff. The Lord’s face is stiff and the smile he gives his daughter looks false.

 

Byamba shakes his head. His imagination plays freely.

 

Kaidu moves to take Byamba’s arms. Forcing himself to appear calm, Byamba allows his father-in-law to press his forehead to his. The lord’s hands are tight on Byamba’s forearms as Kaidu murmurs, curiously quiet, “My son.”

 

Leaving their finest chair for Kaidu, Byamba looks to Khutulun as he sits. She moves about their tent, gathering things to prepare airag. She does not meet Byamba’s eyes as she tends to the hearth and readies the mare’s milk. Kaidu watches her as well, the lord's silence worsening the pain in Byamba’s chest.

 

“Did you enjoy your reprieve?” Kaidu says finally as Khutulun hands him a cup full of airag.

 

“Yes,” Khutulun says, her head dutifully bent, “It was pleasant to spend so much time with my new husband. Thank you, father.”

 

“I do hope you enjoy these days. The early time in a marriage is by far the most pleasant in my experience,” Kaidu says, “Soon you will have children to occupy your thoughts and a household to manage. Take joy in the time you have with only each other. These are memories you will cherish.”

 

“We shall, father,” Khutulun says. She turns and pours another cup of airag. This she hands to Byamba. He feels her fingers linger on his as she passes the cup. The pressure in Byamba’s belly worsens.

 

“May your happiness know many days,” Kaidu says. He drains his fermented milk and Khutulun immediately attends to her father, taking his cup to refill it. Kaidu’s eyes fall on Byamba. The Lord shudders, before looking away with a sigh. He gulps the second cup of airag his daughter hands him.

 

Khutulun kneels by Byamba’s side. She shifts nervously as her father examines his empty cup. Leaning forward, she says, “I missed you father. Did you miss me too?”

 

Kaidu smiles, his eyes fond, “I did, my dear one. Your brother Chabar was like an insect in my ear, constantly humming unwanted words of advice.”

 

“On what matter did he bother you?” Khutulun asks.

 

“The Khan has summoned me to his court,” Kaidu says.

 

Byamba recalls the scene in the court the last time the Khan had entertained Lord Kaidu. His jaw goes tight at the thought. Byamba feels his hand going to rest on Khutulun’s shoulder. His wife touches his hand, lacing her fingers with his.

 

“No doubt he wishes to name himself Great Khan and to discuss the future of his empire with his trusted cousin,” Khutulun say, “and to give you your share from the conquest of the Song Dynasty.”

 

“An act of good will,” Kaidu says, “For the man whom he banished from his full court only weeks ago.”

 

Byamba hangs his head, “Forgive my father, Lord Kaidu. He is rash. Please believe me when I say he thinks very highly of you.”

 

The Khan often spoke of Kaidu but there is something of an omission in Byamba’s statement. The Khan admires Kaidu for his prowess, his ambition, and his ferocity. None of these traits, however, were beneficial to a man who wished for the Khan’s favor. They were traits of a wise combatant acknowledged in an adversary.

 

“He acts on his own whims and visions,” Kaidu says. Khutulun hands her father more airag and he takes a long sip. “As many great men do. But not all can be so rash. What of the rest of us? Are we to be like grass in the wind, moved by every great burst of wind without any say?”

 

Byamba does not know what to make of this statement. It does not appear to be a observation made in the moment. It seems as if this is a subject Kaidu has thought much on.

 

Khutulun says, “He only wishes to give you what you are due.”

 

“What am I due?” Kaidu says with a smirk, “How shall the Khan repay me for the children I’ve lost in his campaign or the new Chinese empire he creates in scorn of our Mongolian ways? I have bent to his will before. I have gained nothing for my obedience.

 

Byamba bites his cheek, feeling as though he is a child again, being taught by an adult, “He seeks to unite the world under one Khan. That is what the great Genghis Khan wanted. What could be more Mongolian than that?”

 

“The great Genghis Khan,” Kaidu says, his voice icy with contempt, “would not have an heir raised in the Chinese way. He would not mock nomads in his own court. Lord Kublai dishonors the legacy which created his world.”

 

“Who can know what grandfather would have wanted?” Khutulun says.

 

"No one could know the mind of our great ancestor," Kaidu says. He drinks deeply from his cup before adding, "What I do know is that I want no part of this new empire. I feel compelled to protect what is mine and I see only one way of doing so."

 

"Father," Khutulun says, "Do you wish to reject the Khan's offering?"

 

"I do not know," Kaidu says. The Lord exhales sharply, then says, more to himself than to his company, “What is there to fear? What is there to gain?”

 

Lord Kaidu would do well not to scorn the Khan. Byamba shudders at the idea of the Golden Horde being set upon by his father’s armies. Both are formidable forces. Families would be forced to kill one another. It would be a war which could last decades.

 

Yet, in truth, Kaidu can reject Kublai Khan’s offering, if that is what the Lord wishes to do. The terrifying ability to bring such havoc rests in the hands of such few men and Lord Kaidu is among them.

 

Later, when Lord Kaidu has excused himself, Byamba says to Khutulun, “You must convince your father of the folly of his ways.”

 

“I fear his mind is already set,” Khutulun replies, her hands busy as she rinses the empty pot of airag.

 

Byamba drops onto the furs where they sleep. His eyes burn so he closes them but questions still bursts from his lips, “Did you know? Did you know that this was his ambition? To shame the Khan thusly will lead to only one consequence.”

 

Khutulun goes still, her hands still clutching the pot. She turns partially but cannot look him in the eye, “I knew your father would call mine to court. That is law. I feared this would be my Lord’s reaction but I did not know it to be fact until this day.”

 

Byamba hangs his head. He feels his fingers begin to knot as he asks, "Is this why our marriage was so hasty?"

 

Khutulun's voice is like broken glass when she responds, "He told me he wanted me closer to the Khan's court. Perhaps it was an attempt at peace between two new empires."

 

"An attempt at peace?" Byamba repeats. He grabs, his hand finding a small wooden stool which he smashes on the ground.

 

Khutulun stares at the splinters and broken wood."Such was my father's intent,” his wife says, her tone shattering as she speaks, “I had no similar motivation when I choose you, Byamba,"  

 

He does not ask why she did not bring these thoughts to his attention. He knows they both wanted to pretend all was right between their fathers. Byamba wishes he could slap himself. How could he have been so blinded by thoughtless whims and desires? What would his mother think?

 

In any event, he knows what his mother would do.

 

“If your father does not appear, the Khan will not be permitted to give himself the title of Great Khan,” Byamba says, moving around her so that they face one another, “Such an act can and must be met with retribution.”

 

Sides must be chosen. No doubt Khutulun will do as her father wishes. And Byamba? He does not wish to scorn his wife or his new family but his mother’s words run deep in his blood. His father is the Khan of Khans. Even in his father’s darkest hours, Byamba cannot muster anything but the desire to honor the man. Lord Kublai is khan. That is law, in Byamba’s mind. That is truth. Anything else is simply unacceptable.

 

“We know this,” Khutulun says, “There is more.”

 

“What more insanity can be mustered from this situation?” Byamba says, rubbing his forehead with his knuckles.

 

Khutulun’s eyes flare as she responds, “My father has claim to lands which are several days journey in extent. We fear your father lusts after my father’s holding and our Khan will use any excuse he can find to take it. I have heard my father speak on his many times but I advised caution. My brother Chapar is fool though and he has been by my father’s side through these past days, no doubt whispering much less advisable words."

 

“You expect your Lord will attempt to protect what is his?” Byamba says, “How does this treachery serve him?”

 

“Like any good general, he does not wish to make the first strike,” Khutulun says, “He would prefer to lay in wait, prepared for when his enemy arrives. This would serve only to show his enemy what he desires.”

 

“By instigating a civil war?” Byamba says, “By pitting brother against brother, cousin against cousin? Such chaos would never serve a purpose.”

 

“I did not say my father was correct,” Khutulun says, standing, her tall form towering over him. She paces across their ger.

 

Byamba watches her. Finally, he stands as well, moving to block her path. She stops, her eyes intent on his, her look a silent plea, one he responds quickly to. He says, “He holds you as his greatest advisor, Khutulun. Speak to him of your thoughts and he will listen. This is not the first time you have counseled him on war.”

 

She nods, gripping his sleeve tightly in her hand. She looks through the smoke hole of their ger, inhaling and exhaling in a controlled rhythm. When she had calmed, she looks to him again, her jaw set, “I can convince him. We depend on it.”

 

They do not speak much for the rest of the night. One of Khutulun’s aunts brings them a lamb leg and Khutulun attempts to roast it for them, leading to meat which is charred almost beyond recognition.

 

“Wonderful,” Byamba says trying not to wince. He holds a piece which he has stripped of ash to her lips, “Very good.”

 

She turns away, mouth set in a firm line. She shudders, sticking her tongue out as she gags, “The smell.”

 

“It tastes better than it smells,” Byamba lies.

 

Khutulun pushes her helping towards him and stands, readying herself for bed. Byamba forcefully eats all the meat before him. When he is finished, feeling slightly bilous, Byamba begins undressing himself as well. His skin shudders without cause and he turns to see Khutulun watching him.

 

He savors the sight before him: Khutulun, waiting for him to join her in bed. Her hair hangs loose and his fingers itch to mess it. She watches him, eyes dark and lustful. Khutulun pushes back the furs she is wrapped in, her flesh warm and bare, waiting for his touch.

 

“Does this please your eyes?” Byamba asks, moving more slowly as he takes off his clothing. He kneels before her, enjoying the feeling of her eyes exploring his form.

 

She does not respond. Instead she grabs him when he is close, stealing his very breath with her kisses.

 

He sits with his legs cross with her astride him, her strong thighs gripping him as her hips roll. She rides him until her breathing grows heavy and then he moves to top her as their pleasures reaches its peaks.

 

“Wait for me,” Khutulun says in his ear, afterwards when she is still breathless. She is curled up around him, his back to her chest, her arms tight around him. “I will ride with my father on the steppe, away from interrupting voices. Promise me you will wait for me to return.”

 

“I will wait,” Byamba says, tracing the crest of her hip with his arm.

 

He falls asleep soon after, the feeling of her eyes on him. When he awakens the next morning, she is gone.

 

Byamba finds work for himself around the ger. Winters draws close so he puts out thick rugs and insulates the walls with heavy furs. He meticulously cleans and cares for his armor and weapons. He rights the mess Khutulun left while cooking the night before, lays new bedding for them to sleep on, and tends to the hearth. When it is all done, he notices that night has fallen. Khutulun has not returned. His throat feels like there is noose about it.

 

He spends the night awake, waiting for her and the next day he volunteers to help tend to the horse herds. By the time night falls on the second evening, he has formulated plans to take a horse out onto the steppe to find them

 

The next morning, he is readying his mare when he hears commotion. Throught the chatter of the nomads, he hears what is occurring. Riders from Cambulac approach.

 

He knows without being told they come for him.

 

One of them calls to him as he goes to greet them. Byamba sees a familiar face among the visitors. It is Marco Polo.

 

"The Khan himself sent me to fetch you. He wishes to see you in the crowd on the momentous day which approaches," Marco says, sliding stiffly from his stead. He stretches his limbs before reaching for Byamba’s embrace.

 

"I moved to leave for Cambulac shortly," Byamba lies.

 

"Why did you not respond to the messengers who were sent? Many were rode to you in the past weeks alone," Marco says, "We were very surprised when you did not arrive quickly."

 

"Messengers?" Byamba says, his flesh growing cold despite the sun on his face, "I received no messages on the topic of the coronation."

 

"It is no matter now," Marco says with a shrugs, "They merely bid to you to come to your father’s side. Now you know. Come. I was told to make haste. The ceremony and celebrations begins in two days."

 

Heart pounding and stomach sick with worry, Byamba says, "The voyage will take only a day. Lord Kaidu and Lady Khutulun ride the steppe as we speak. We must wait. Come. I shall feed you and water your horse."

 

Marco shifts, "I was told to collect you and return with no idle - "

 

"Come," Byamba says. He turns and walks towards his ger, leaving Marco the option to either follow or insult his friend.

 

"This is your ger?" Marco says, his eyes on Byamba’s belongings in their arranged places. Then the Latin's eyes fall on Khutulun's clothing which had been left on the floor and her boots which lay muddy by the hearth.

 

"Yes," Byamba says. Marco seems surprised by this fact. This too requires further inquiry but Byamba cannot bring himself to ask necessary questions. Already he is beginning to feel like the butt of  a joke. Instead, he busies his hands with preparing food and drink.

 

"The court has been a bustle," Marco tells his friends as meat and salt cakes and airag are places before him, "Preparations for the Khan's coronation for his new title, ministers establishing the new  government for the Song territory. It is an exciting thing to watch and take part in."

 

"I am sure it is," Byamba says. He takes no food but sips heavily from a cup of airag. He remembers the night of the White Moon, when he had seen Khutulun fight a yawn as the court had watched the displays. His skin grows cold from sweat.

 

"Jinghim and Kokachin will be married soon," Marco adds.

 

Byamba finishes his airag. "She will be a good wife."

 

It is true. The Blue Princess may not be the bride Byanba would prefer but she will suit Jinghim and his mother's needs.

 

"Yes," Marco says. It is not difficult to ascertain the emotions Byamba hears in the Latin's voice. Polo is not subtle with his affections.

 

“I am sorry. I know that is not what you wished for,” Byamba says. Only weeks prior, he might have chastised the Latin. Of course, the Khan would not allow Marco to have Kokachin, like some spoil of war. Of course, it was a fool’s gamble to think otherwise. Now, Byamba begins to understand.

 

Byamba’s breath grows heavy as if he has inhaled too much smoke and soot. His mother had known better.

 

Marco finishes his food in silence. Byamba sharpens his sword for the fourth time that day. Every noise outside the tent sounds like horses returning. Marco notices Byamba fidgets too much.

 

“Where is Lady Khutulun?” Marco asks.

 

“On the steppe,” Byamba replies, his tone controlled, “She rides with Lord Kaidu.”

 

“How long have they been gone?” Marco asks.

 

“Days,” Byamba says, folding his hands to prevent himself from sharing his anxious tell.

 

“Did they speak on when they would return?”

 

“They did not.”

 

“Do they not know the Khan’s coronation approaches? Are they not concerned they may be tardy?” Marco asks.

 

Byamba does not answer. His fingers stroke a bit of the cloth he uses to clean his blades.

 

Marco takes only a moment to understand. He is not the bright-eyed, naive youth he once was.  "Byamba, we must not be part of their treachery."

 

“There will be no treachery. Khutulun rides with him to prevent such grievous misstep,” Byamba says. Even to his own ears, it sounds like a childish dream, a falsity, “I wish to wait until the sunrises tomorrow. I am certain they will have returned then.”

 

“If we are late - ”

 

“Khutulun and I were married,” Byamba says. There is no point allowing the omission to continue. As Byamba feared, Marco’s face goes slack, his mouth wide at the concession. “I will give them time to return.”

 

"I will wait with you," Marco says.

 

Byamba does not reply. He stands and takes his horse. There is hill just outside of Karakorum. If one goes to the top, one can see the steppe for miles. Byamba waits there, the silence serving only to worsen his fear.

 

Day becomes night much too quickly. The moon shines, giving him enough light to see. By the time morning rises, Marco has found him.

 

Byamba ponders on the thoughts he had begun to have only days prior. The names he wished to give his children. The lessons he wanted to teach when his sons and daughters were old enough to learn. The traditions his would practice, to honor the tales and experience his mother had carried from her land and fostered in him.

 

“I am so sorry, Byamba,” Marco says.

 

Byamba nods but secretly, he wishes to strike the Latin. What does this boy know? This foolish child choose this world and this life, knowing its traps and deception. Marco does not even realize the privilege he carries, the privilege of choice. Byamba does not indulge himself. Such an act of violence is something he himself deserves. Marco is still learning. Byamba has spent his entire life knowing better.

 

Byamba does not remember the ride back to Cambulac, only that the land had blazed past them and that he had prayed to gods he did not worship that Khutulun and Kaidu would be waiting for them.

 

The Khan does not erupt when he is informed his court is not full. He is silent, a glint in his eye like that of a child given a wonderful gift. Byamba finds himself looking in the crowd for her, out of instinct.

 

The sun sets on the day of his father’s coronation. Kaidu and Khutulun do not appear. Byamba’s fate is sealed.

 

.

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X

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.

 

Several weeks after his father’s failed coronation, Byamba is awoken by the hands tearing him from his bed. Night is still high in the sky. His arms are chained and he is kicked and shoved through the halls, down stairs until he is in the dungeons. Byamba’s skull meets the stone wall as he is thrown into a cell. Bile fills his mouth. Just before darkness fills his vision, Byamba sees it is his father’s personal guard who put him in the prison.

 

When he rises from the fog, he hears a murmur. A servant hurries away. Sunlight falls through a small window. Byamba’s mouth feels dry. When he stands, blood rushes from his head and he stumbles. He is on his knees when his half-brother approaches.

 

“It seems you and our father have more in common than I previously assumed,” Jinghim says. His voice is cheerful, a rare good mood. Byamba has never felt such good will directed at him by his half-brother.

 

“What do you mean?” Byamba says.

 

Jinghim’s lips widen as he smiles, “After all the favor he bestowed upon you, you dishonored him. I always knew he misplaced his trust in you. When we were children, more than one said you should be his heir. It was a mistake of birth, they said. Perhaps now, they will see you as I do.”

 

“What do you mean, Jinghim?” Byamba repeats, his voice like a parent speaking to a child.

 

“You sired the Khan’s future enemy,” Jinghim says, his face lifted up towards the ceiling as he looks down upon Byamba, “Do you not recall?”

 

“Speak plainly,” Byamba says.

 

“A child who hails from the House of Oggodei and from the House of Kublai has a strong claim to the throne do they not?” Jinghim says, “What titles do you think will be bestowed upon the bastard you gave Lady Khutulun? Tell me. Being illegitimate, you must have some ideas.”

 

“I sired no bastards,” Byamba says. He stands, throwing his fists against the bars of his cage. His flesh pounds against the metal, the sound ringing through the empty dungeons. “I sire no bastards.”

 

“And yet, here we are,” Jinghim says. He motions and a guards arrives.

 

Byamba is pulled from his cell. Heavy chains are wrapped around his wrists, ankles, and neck. The guards tugs on a leading chain, pulling him like he is a dog. Byamba claws at the ground, pulling back on his restraints until he can face Jinghim again.

 

The guard raises a club to pacify Byamba but Jinghim gestures for the guard to be lenient. Jinghim’s face is a mask of deep satisfaction as he looks at Byamba.

 

“She carries a child,” Byamba asks.

 

“For now,” Jinghim says. He waves his half-brother away.

 

Byamba is taken up the stairs, down corridors. He hears whispers as he is lead but pays them no heed. He knows where they are going. Byamba does not have time for rumors. He must prepare himself to face his father.

 

The Khan lounges in his bed, his head in Empress Chabi’s lap. The Queen rubs Kublai’s temples, her eyes like those of an eagles when she sees Byamba enters. The gentle ministrations of her fingers stops and the Khan opens his eyes.

 

“The wind carried news of your marriage to me, did you know that?” the Khan says, “At first I was pleased. Then your wife’s father betrayed me. Even then, I was willing to look past your foolishness until this new happening.”

 

The Khan waits for Byamba to speak. When he hears only silence, he says, “You are a son of Genghis. I should have suspected you would have strong seed.”

 

“Father,” Byamba says. He stops. The Khan waits but Byamba does not begin again. There is nothing of substance that he can says. He is mud, lowly and worthless.

 

“My cousin used you. He knew my niece was your weakness. There is no shame is being swayed by a pretty girl, hm?”

 

Byamba has not been tricked though. He has been a very willing participant. This only serves to worsen the pit growing in his stomach.

 

“Lord Kaidu believes he can call for war in the name of this new heir,” Kublai says, “He believes his daughter’s child can rule my empire, on their birthright alone. I think this foolish but my cousin is not one for fully formed ideas.”

 

Byamba’s mouth fills with bile. He is a soldier. He has little concern for politics. He had thought Khutulun to be of the same mind. The two of them, they made empires, they did not rule them. Byamba has no concept of how to put power back where it should be.

 

“It is an unfortunate but ultimately an insignificant matter,” Kublai says with a shrug, “I will burn Karakorum to the ground. There will be no war if there is no Kaidu to insight one, no child to inspire such carnage. This is right, yes?”

 

This is a test, just as much as the women the Khan sent to his room or the battles Byamba is told to win or the inquiry the Kublai gave Byamba on the state of his empire and court.

 

‘If it pleases the Khan.’ This phrase he has heard a thousand times, in the concubine’s wing, in the army camps, in the court. He can hear it in his head, the words spoken by his mother’s voice. Yet, he cannot bring himself to say the words.

 

“I was the one who dishonored you,” Byamba says, “Take my life. Spare the innocent.”

 

Byamba hangs his head, prepared for what fate has given him.

 

“Such rash behavior, husband.” Empress Chabi says. Both Byamba and the Khan look to her. She surveys Byamba like one might look upon a rodent, “So many lives destroyed by one fool.”

 

“I gave no permission for any marriage,” the Khan says, his voice like a blade, “Kaidu scorned me in my open court. He refuses my wishes for my empire. That child’s existence is a mockery.”

 

“Indeed it is,” Empress Chabi says, “But a mockery of whom?”

 

The Khan waits. Empress Chabi smiles, the expression slight.

 

“It need not be your humiliation,” Empress Chabi says, “Let it be Lord Kaidu’s.”

 

She gently removed the Khan’s head from her lap, standing to her full height. The Queen steps down from the bed, down the steps until she stand before the Khan’s son. Byamba falls to his knees, his chains making a loud noise as they drop to the floor.

 

“We shall tell the truth,” Empress Chabi asks, “Your bastard never wed the girl.”

 

Byamba looks dumbly at her. Then, he understands. She is doing what she has always done, what she does best: she is protecting her Khan. Here is a way to save face. The Khan’s armies are weak from the battle at Xiangyang. Karakorum is out of their reach.

 

There need not be any battle to speak of, if there is no cause for war on the Khan’s side of things.

 

‘If it pleases the Khan.’

 

He had broken his word to his mother. The child would carry the burden. It need not carry any other.

 

Byamba does not speak, his silence sinking like lead in the ocean. The quiet is just as guilty as words might be.

 

“Therefore, he did not sire that child,” Chabi says, “He claim neither of them?”

“This is the truth we accept,” Kublai says, watching Byamba out of the corner of his eye. Byamba does not speak.

 

Chabi watches Byamba before turning with a nod to her husband, “You see. We have no call to war. Not yet. Wait and see. A bastard son must be dealt with but only when the time comes. A daughter, we can ignore entirely.”

 

“Very good, my Empress,” Kublai says.

 

.

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XI

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.

 

His ultimate salvation comes in the form of news. He has been in his cell for months. The shadows have begun to speak, telling him to tear the bars apart and to leap from the window to freedom. Every day the walls seems to shrink, his world becoming that much smaller.

 

To keep his sanity, he keeps up his strength. He pulls himself up on the bars of his cell. He performs the stretches and exercises his teachers once taught him. His body is dirty and his hair grows wild but his body remains strong, ready for his father’s bidding.

 

Yet, he still jumps when he hears the scuttle of a mouse or the slam of a distant door. His skin feels like it crawls away at the slightest breeze. His mind fills with thoughts that are bathed in the fire of insanity.

 

Then one day, days, weeks, or perhaps years after he is put in the cell, Byamba receives a visitor.

 

“Khutulun bore you a daughter,” Marco says. He holds a cup of water through the bars for Byamba. Marco holds the cup to his friend’s lips for a second more before pulling away to hear Byamba’s response.

 

None arise. The Latin had come often to see Byamba in the cell, bringing him food and water, making sure his friend was still alive. Then, Marco had stopped appearing.

 

“I apologize my friend. I neglected to tell you where I have been,” the Latin says, “I spent the past several months traveling the Khan’s lands doing his business. Rumors of war persist yet we spent time in Karakorum, organizing tariff. I saw Khutulun and the babe myself.”

 

The sight of the Latin is like sunlight in a darkroom. He illuminates Byamba’s surroundings, exposing the reality by allowing a contrast. For the first time, Byamba can smell the filth around him and on him. His skin is covered in bites and scratches. Byamba realizes now, that he has not had any thought outside his cell for as long as he can recall.

 

“Whom do you speak of Latin?” Byamba asks, his voice sandy from the dryness of his tongue and mouth.

 

Marco shifts from foot to foot, “I arrived several days before the birth. After we concluded business, Khutulun called me to her ger and we talked for many hours on -” Marco pauses, “many topics. We spoke on the child, on politics, on war. Many things. Motherhood has not diminished her ferocity.”

 

Byamba leans back, hanging on the chains about his wrists. The flesh around his arms is raw and infected, he notices. He closes his eyes hoping that the nightmare that is Marco Polo will soon leave.

 

“Your daughter was tireless in her mother’s womb, always most dramatic at night. She danced every night as the moon and stars rose as if for a celestial audience,” Marco says, his eyes following his friend’s dejected movements, “Sleep evaded Khutulun because of this and she continuous promised her unborn child that if they continued their incessant movements, she would have no choice but to abandon them on the steppe for the wolves to raise.”

 

The words pass through Byamba’s ears but he does not comprehend them. They only serve to make him more keenly aware of how hollow he is. He feels as if he is empty, his organs gone and his blood and flesh shriveled to nothing. He is barely alive and yet, this is not enough.

 

“When the time came, I heard the screams from halfway across Karakorum,” Marco says, adding with a shudder, “They persisted for days.”

 

The drumming of his heart rings in Byamba’s ears. He grows angry at the cadence. He has no right to it. He wishes for silence.

 

“Khutulun nearly died. The curse of narrow hips, the women said,” Marco continues,  “Kaidu sang the praise of his daughter to all who would listen when he heard of her turmoil. He called her the fiercest warrior he had ever seen.”

 

Marco pulls a parcel from his pocket. As he unwraps it, Byamba sees his friend as brought him a salt cake. After breaking it into pieces, Marco leans against the bars of the cells, reaching to hold the bites to his friend’s mouth. Byamba presses himself against the wall further, his chains preventing him from moving away entirely.

 

“Will you not eat, Byamba?” Marco asks, “You look like a living skeleton. Please. For me, because I am your friend?”

 

Byamba presses his lips together. His head rolls, the wall feeling steady against his skull.

 

Marco puts away his salt cake and says, “Khutulun called for me when she had recovered and I held the babe on her sixth day.” Marco smiles at the memory, “She is a big baby, cheeks like the Buddha’s. Hair like puffy clouds and much of it. A lump, as her mother describes her. Constantly at her mother’s breast for milk or sleeping if not feeding. I think she will be quite tall when she is grown, just like her parents. I could not tell whom she took after in appearance. She is indeed a lump.”

 

Byamba could crack his head against the wall, if he so desired. He need only lean forward and throw himself back and his skull would break. He would be free.

 

Yet he does not. He listens to the Latin. Every word Marco says echoes in his mind and he knows he will remember it all. Byamba clings to what he is told like a parasite.

 

“She is a content baby, not prone to excessive crying,” Marco adds, “Very interested in the world around her too. When I held her, she seemed to stare. I think she is not used to such strange skin color. Her hands were so tiny but her grip was very impressive when I allowed her to clutch my finger. I held her close and told her that her father loves her. She seemed to sleep better as a result.”

 

Byamba clears his throat loudly. Marco looks up, his smile fading slightly.

 

“Lord Kaidu,” Marco says, his voice uncertain, “adores the child. She was born under the sign of the Tiger, as described by the Chinese zodiac. His first words to her voiced hopes that she would grow to have the heart of a tigeress.”

 

“Marco - ”

 

“Yet she is inclined towards a strange habit already,” Marco says, talking faster than before, “When weariness or hunger makes her angry, your baby daughter, she growls like an angry dog. When the time came to name her, Khutulun’s family gave many suggestions. Sarnai, Boroo, Chuluuny. However, Khutulun chose the name her brother Orus suggested because of the child’s growl. Kaidu believes the babe is merely attempting to pronounce her name.”

 

Byamba closes his eyes, to force the images in his mind away.

 

“Her name is  - ”

 

“Stop, Latin,” Byamba shouts. He cannot have this. He cannot allow himself to think of his child.

 

Marco freezes, “I do not mean to hurt you. Lady Khutulun told me to tell you.”

 

The sit in silence for several minutes. Finally, Marco pulls his salt cake out again. This time, when he offers it to Byamba, his friend takes it. The taste is wonderful in his mouth. The cake is overly sweet, dense, and crispy, just as he likes. None of the food he has been given by the guards compares.

 

“Please tell my father, I have no purpose, no will of my own, except for my desire to serve the Khan’s will,” Byamba says.

 

Marco offers him more salt cake, nodding.

 

.

.

.

XII

.

.

.

 

The Latin visits Byamba daily, always with food and news from the court. In return, Byamba offers the same plea:“Please tell my father, I have no purpose, no will of my own, except for my desire to serve the Khan’s will.”

 

“I will,” Marco promises each time.

 

Yet, Byamba remains in his cell, the shadows taunting him and the walls crushing in on him more and more each day. He begins to reject all food, even the Latin’s offerings. His stomach aches with hunger and then become silent, as if accepting its fate. His skin grows loose around his body and his senses grow dull.

 

Just as it begins to seem like it will be over, guards come for him. He waits for chains but none are placed upon him. The guards walk on either side of him, escorting him to his quarters.

 

His room is untouched. The bed, upon which he left his blankets and furs carefully folded, and his chests and other belongings are untouched, save for a thick layer of dust. Only his armor and his sword, which stands in the corner, has been disturbed. Someone sharpened his blade and polished his pieces.

 

“You ride out within the hour,” a voice says behind him. Jinghim tosses a scroll onto Byamba’s bed as he enters the room. “My father has a task for you. He wishes for you establish his power in Burma. From there, he hopes to encircle the Yuan Empire and consolidate his power.”

 

“I am deeply honored,” Byamba says when he finds his tongue, “Please tell the Khan - ”

 

“It is no honor bastard,” Jinghim says, “We demanded tribute. They refused. They must bend to the will of the Great Khan. My father is more concerned with his navy in Japan.”

 

“Still,” Byamba says. His eyes feel warm. He stretches his arms, touching nothing but open space. His wrists, free of chains, feels awkward and light. “I am deeply honored by the Khan’s task.”

 

“You will command no men. You take only your horse, your sword, and whatever meager things you claim as belongings,” Jinghim adds, “You will be a mere soldier. The title of Khan’s bastard will mean nothing.”

 

“I am still elevated,” Byamba says, picking up his sword.

 

Jinghim turns to leave but stops himself. “Any other man would be dead, bastard. It is a testament to his love for you that you remain alive.”

 

Byamba unsheath his sword, checking the sharpness of the blade, “I know this.”

 

“My mother spoke for you but not on your behalf,” Jinghim adds, “Lady Khutulun was like a daughter to her.”

 

“Please thank the Empress on my behalf,” Byamba says. He knows he should appease Jinghim’s pride. A bastard should not have more favor than that which is shown the crown prince. Yet, he cannot think of anything to say. It is indeed unfair.

 

“Your time in prison has made you lose mind,” Jinghim says, “You speak simply.”

 

Byamba pauses. If he does not stop himself, he can still feel the press of Khutulun’s skin against his, the murmur of her voice in his ear. He can imagine their child, who is old enough now to be taking her first steps.

 

“I have no purpose, no will of my own, except for my desire to serve the Khan’s will.”

 

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XIII

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.

.

The liquid is a frigid clear red that shimmers from the light of the fireside. Byamba sniffs it, as Marco had instructed him to. It smells metallic like cold metal. The first sip is like drinking poison.

 

“What did you call this?” Byamba asks.

 

“Wine,” Marco says, “It is the airag of France”

 

“It is disgusting,” Byamba says, “Can we not drink some real airag?”

 

“Take another sip,” Marco says, “The first drink is a cleansing. The second brings out the trust taste of the wine.”

 

Byamba does as his friend insists. The wine slips over his tongue, less fiery than before. New tastes arise: bitter spices and something like rotten fruit. His belly begins to feel warm, however, and this is more than adequate reason to take third sip.

 

“Delicious,” Byamba says, finishing the cup. The taste makes his mouth twist but his heart becomes lighter. He holds out his cup for more wine.

 

"You can taste it can you not? It is like a blooming flower,

 

Byamba takes a long sip. After one cup, it is easier to drink without gagging, "Yes. Very much a flower."

 

"My father gave it to me when we met with him in Kungurat," Marco tells Byamba, "I will write to him and make sure he brings more the next time we see one another. We made plans to meet in Xiangyang. He wishes to see the sight of my victory. And no doubt, take samples of their porcelain for trade."

 

Byamba notes the warmth in Marco's voice when he speaks of Nicolo. He finishes his wine and holds the cup out for the Latin to refill.

 

“The pony you procured,” Byamba asks, “It is for Temur, is it not?”

 

“Yes,” Marco says, smiling at the memory of Kokachin’s young son, “He is not yet old enough to learn to ride but the pony is still growing. He can become accustomed to the animal and one day it may be his first steed. I wish to give it as a gift. Do you think he will like it?”

 

“I am certain he will.”

 

“Good,” Marco says.

 

They sit in silence. Marco is a trusted member of Kublai Khan’s court. Byamba lives only by the grace of his title. Their paths in life have diverged and they have little to talk about.

 

“Is it true that Kaidu speaks to Mongke Timur on a possible alliance?” Marco asks, “What are your thoughts on that?”

 

“I do not know of any alliance and I have no thoughts on the matter,” Byamba says, “If my father wishes for me to fight, I fight. I have no mind for politics.”

 

“Is that so?” Marco says, “Is that why you make an attempt on Burma?”

 

“Yes,” Byamba says. The wine makes his tongue loose just as airag does, “I seek to please my father. I am nothing if I am not his son. Without his title, I would just be another speck in his endless kingdom. I am only worth what he judges my value to be.”

 

“You are very valuable to him,” Marco says, “I believe recent events have proven this.”

 

Byamba takes the skin of wine from Marco, “I dishonored him and that dishonor hangs over my head like an executioner’s blade.”

 

“You think acts of grandeur with remove their existence from his mind?” Marco asks, watching as Byamba drinks from the skin.

 

“I will give my father a thousand lands to disbalance the shame I have brought,” Byamba says. He feels himself smile, his mind light from the wine, “The courtiers may say what they wish but they will live.”

 

“And you are satisfied with that?” Marco says.

 

Byamba ignored the Latin, choosing instead to take the skin and finish it by the open window. The cold night air feels good on his skin and he grows weary. The Latin leaves to attend to some matter and Byamba falls into a deep sleep.

 

Hours later, he is awoken. The room is dark save for the light of the moon which shines through the window.

 

“Byamba,” the Latin’s cursed voice says in his ear.

 

Byamba shoves into the darkness from which the sound comes from. He hears a gratifying gasp as his hands hit flesh. Pulling his blankets closer, Byamba falls into sleep.

 

The blankets are yanked away from him. Byamba is pulled from the bed. He grumbles but Marco holds a hand against his mouth.

 

“You must come with me now.”

 

Before Byamba can comment on the matter, Marco pulls him out of the room into the bright hallway.

 

Byamba follows Marco down the stairs into the main room of the inn they had chosen to rest at for the night. They enter into the wide, open area where several tables with a few sleepless patrons wait. The Latin pulls him away, leading him to a hidden space behind one of the walls where several barrels are stored. Through the cracks and crevices in the wood, they can see into the main room without being seen.

 

Byamba shifts, awkward at the thought of watching strangers without their knowledge, “Is this another assignment from my father, Marco?”

 

“No,” Marco says, squinting to study a band of travelers who enter the inn, “You will understand soon. Please be patient.”

 

Byamba obeys, sitting down at his friend’s feet with his back against one of the barrels. He yawns, still tired from the sleep his friend interrupted and he feels his head begin to grow heavy.

 

“Do you wish for me to kill someone?” Byamba asks, his weary eyes half closed as he watches Marco scan the room intently.

 

“We were not sent to harm anyone,” Marco says, his mouth narrowed at the thought.

 

“A message then? Will someone arrive with words I must pass on?”

 

“Byamba,” the Latin says, “This has nothing to do with the duty you and I have to your father. Not all things do.”

 

“For you, perhaps,” Byamba says, closing his eyes.

 

“This task I have, I wish for you to do for me, because I am your friend,” Marco says looking down at Byamba, “And for yourself. You are a good person. You deserve a mind which can be at ease.”

 

Before Byamba can inquire further, the door to the inn opens and a tall, thin man with heavy braids enters, carrying a bundle of fur against his chest. The newcomer passes the wall behind which Byamba and Marco hide and the firelight catches on his sharp features. Byamba knows him: he is Orus, one of Lord Kaidu’s sons.

 

Orus sits at a table only a few feet from them, near the fire. He pulls at the furs in arms until a child is revealed, a small sleeping girl with a mess of curls which have strayed from their braided arrangement on her head. Orus leans close to whisper to the child, who begins to open her eyes, a frown creasing on her face at the interruption.

 

“She has just seen her first birthday,” Byamba says. He knows; he had stopped to contemplate the occasion.

 

Orus accepts a plate of meat from the innkeeper, a piece of which he offers to Byamba’s daughter. The child’s face crumples at the offering and she begins to wriggle in his arms. Her uncle clucks his tongue, allowing her to slip from his arms to the ground.

 

“She takes after you in face and body,” Marco says.

 

Byamba agrees, feeling a strange pride at the sight of her familiar profile and long form. He sees himself in her eyes and mouth and Khutulun in shape her nose. His belly feels tight as he notes the curve of her face and her high cheekbones, “She takes after my mother as well.”

 

He feels his cheeks rise as he watches his daughter walk like small drunkard, legs flailing and uncertain. She examines the other patrons in the bar as Orus looks on. Khutulun’s brother appears to be waiting for something.

 

“Lady Khutulun travels with Lord Kaidu as his advisor. Lord Orus cares for your child in her absence,” Marco tells him as they watch the little girl stumble about, “My sources tell me Khutulun missed her babe and has arranged to come and see her tonight.”

 

As if called upon, the door opens again. Her armor is dirty and her back is bent with exhaustion but Byamba still feels the same irrepressible pull towards Khutulun when he sees her. His wife kneels opening her arms to embrace their child, who runs squealing when she sees her mother. Khutulun holds the girl close, her hands shaking as she stroke their daughter’s hair. The girl turns towards her uncle, pointing at Khutulun as if to show her mother to him. Orus smile, nodding.

 

It eases his mind to see such affection. He realizes now, he had feared his child would be resented. Yet she is not. Her mother holds her close, watching with eye full of love as his own mother once had, in spite of unfortunate circumstances.

 

"Why did you do this?" Byamba says, "I could be executed for this. You could be branded a traitor and lose everything you have gained. My family - "

 

Byamba stops himself but Marco notices his admission.

 

"Your daughter's name is Gerel," Marco says, "Fathers should know their children."

 

Khutulun motions to her brother and the siblings begin to move towards the stairs. Byamba finds himself watching them leave, knowing well this may be the only time he ever seen his only child.

 

A hundred lands, a thousand if need be. Whatever his father needs to displace the shame Byamba has brought. His child will not carry the burden of his association.

 

.

.

.

 

It is nearly a decade before he sees Cambulac again. The Pagan Empire in Burma is governed by a poor crown, one unable to raise a large army. Yet it is still a task to conquer the country.

 

The lands he travels to begin to blur together until he can only recall name and the briefest of memories.

 

Ngasaunggyan. It had been a bloody battle but not for the Mongolians. The Burmese army numbered in the thousands, while the Mongols arrived with only a fraction of this number. Along with the army were thousands of elephants, each carrying a dozen or more soldiers. It had been a frightening sight indeed but the Commader, Huthukh, had not been afraid. He had bid his soldiers to remain under the cover of trees and aim their arrows at the massive beasts until the animals pains drove them to run.

 

The weather dictated their movements. Monsoon season and summer heat governed whether they fought or retreated. The generals choose retreat at the time. There is a five year interlude, wherein Byamba waits in a war camp for news. Despite the Mongol’s obvious success, the Pagans do not concede to the Khan’s demands for tribute. Byamba’s father has concerns elsewhere. Japan proves to be a difficulty.

 

Finally, they begin to move again.

 

Ngasaunggyan again. A Burmeses fort stands for two months but finally opens to their siege. Many men and many commanders falls. This proves to be of consequence. They push on to the Irrawaddy Valley. There they take Taguang until the heat drives them away. The Burmese take back the city but after the dry season, the Mongols resume and retake the city.

 

The Burmese begin to crumble from within. The King is weak, distrusting of his own sons. Revolts tears the country apart. A ceasefire is called. Two years of negotiations follow. A treaty is formed and broken when the Emperor is assassinated by his own son. There is one final push to take Pagan, the capital. There are many casualties. The Mongols are forced to retreat.

 

The Pagan Empire is broken. The Khan does not attempt to fill the power void he had created. Byamba thinks his fahter prefers this: a broken country, one which does not need to be ruled but is held down by its own broken structure.

 

.

.

.

 

While Byamba is in Burma, Lord Kaidu begins his attack on Kublai Khan. Criticizing the Khan’s loss of his Mongolian ways, Kaidu brings together a powerful force of like minded generals.

 

It is around this time that Byamba is reunited with Marco Polo. The Latin becomes a great explorer, much as he desired, while Byamba is away. Their paths cross during one of the Latin’s voyages in the Khan’s name.

 

By this time, Kokachin has bore three sons for Jinghim and had risen high in the Khan’s favor. For this reason, she is permitted to travel with Marco, inspecting the lands her husband will one day hold.

 

Byamba watches the pair. Together, they have long games of chess, quiet afternoon teas, and nightly discussions of the politics of the Khan’s court. They will never have more and yet, Byamba sees a peace in Marco’s eyes that he envies.

 

For this reason, Byamba bids Marco to come to his tent one night to give him a parcel.

 

“What is this?” Marco asks as he holds the small ivory ring in his hand.

 

“It is a bow ring,” Byamba says, “One uses it to makes arrows fly. Mine is distinct.”

 

“Ah,” Marco says, turning the ring in his hands, “Why do you give this to me?”

 

“I have no use for it. It was a gift from my mother. I hold it very dear,” Byamba says, “This is known.”

 

Marco’s eyes widen as he begins to understand. He has come to have many contacts on the Silk Road and knows merchant who could ride to Karakorum with ease. “I will make sure she receives it.”

 

Weeks later, his father sends word to Byamba. Briefly, he considers that his father has somehow intercepted his gift to Khutulun. He curses himself for this small risk, after so many years of sane, calculated decisions.

 

His fears are without purpose. The Khan wishes for Byamba to go to Vietnam next. It is a fool’s errand. Two failed conquests have already been attempted. It is a land of strange diseases and maddening jungles. The kingdom they seek to destroy is not weak. It will almost certainly end with Byamba’s death.

 

He accepts. By the time the news reaches the Khan’s ears, Byamba is halfway to the peninsula.

 

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XIV

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.

 

The first few days, he can only think of his hunger. It seems as if his body is possessed by a demonic force. His belly burns and aches with an endless ferocity. He becomes consumed with the memory of food. The idea of sustenance nearly pushes away all thoughts of shame at his defeat.

 

He hears the thunder of horseman outside the dungeon. Soldiers call to one another across the courtyard outside the window. His shoulders ache, from old injury and the chains he is forced into. From the light through the hole in the top of his prison cell, he can see. Each morning that passes sees another one of his fellow prisoners’ succumb to their hunger or injury. Finally, he is alone.

 

Next, he becomes accustomed to the hunger. He feels energetic in the morning like a plant in the rising sun. He begins to feel that perhaps he can survive this trial. Then the weakness comes. As the hours pass and the sun rises through the sky, his body begins to feel weighted and if lead has been places upon his skin. Every day is worse than the last.

 

Byamba prays for fever or infection or execution. Such would be much preferable to facing his father after such a defeat as the one he and his men experienced at Beshbalik.

 

He grows old. His joints ache in the cold dungeon and his skin and flesh have grown soft. He can see now, that the past decades have been nothing more than survival. He has seen the world, he had gained honor, and he is an old man. Death is only frightening. It is not the clawing, omnipresent figure in his mind that it once was.

 

And die he shall. The city is held by Lord Kaidu. Byamba had marched with an army of 10,000 men, with intent on Japan. Now, he is one of only a hundred survivors. There will be no ransom for his life or any of the others. His father is spread across his empire. The Khan does not have the resources.

 

Then, finally, he begins to die. His skin grows loose and becomes discolored. Chunks of hair remain where he rests his head when he rises from sleep. There is no hunger and little of anything else. He waits for the end.

 

The only surprise he feels is in the strange emotion of failure and greed. He had wanted to take Japan and not simply because such was his father’s orders. Many had tried and failed. The island country was a fortress, an ocean its steep, insurmountable walls. It would have been a fine victory but only another reward he gave to his father for allowing him to serve the Khan. Yet, he still wishes he could have had it.

 

His mind begins to desert him, as it did once all those years ago in his father’s prison. He hears whispers in the empty shadows and imagines ghosts which float through the open window. He sees a strange figure, a girl, creeping through the halls outside his prison cell. The phantom child watches him at night, silent save for her eyes which seem to know him.

 

“I would not be your shame. I decided this long ago,” the ghost tells him, "And therefore, you could not be my shame either."

 

She is not there. Yet he had seen her in the crowd, the same braided hair many in the House of Oggodei wore adorning her head. She had stood a head taller than most of those around her. When the Khan’s army had fallen, they had paraded him around the city, beating him and belittling him. When he had laid eyes on her, blood ran into his eyes and his mind was loose from the force of their kicks. Still, he was unnerved at the very memory of her eyes, which held the same emotion he had seen in his mother’s when she had died in his arms so many years ago.

 

They had told her to execute him, offer her blade to fulfill the task. “Honor us, Little Gerel. Let us see him deny you as you hack off his head.”

 

She was entitled to such. He would not have faulted her is she had indulged their whims. He deserves her scorn. It was her duty to her Lord. Yet she had not.

 

He begins to drift into long sleeps, which grow in duration as time passes.

 

Then, the light returns.

 

He is barely able to open his eyes when the sound of the prison’s door slamming wakes him. Guards pull him from his cell, along with a dozen of his fellow soldiers who still live. They are marched down the hall, through the courtyard where a crowd of enemy soldiers watch them pass by. Byamba and his men are stripped of their weapons, given their horses and only a few days worth of water and food, before they are released.

 

Byamba clings to his old mare, his hands limp in her mane as his steed marches slowly home. He has no answer when they question why he was released.

 

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XV

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.

 

Ten months later, Byamba gains holding in Japan, not by the sword but through diplomacy. While he is away, two events transpire. He waits for his next order. Months pass. He has never gone so long without instruction from his father and he grows restless.

When word finally does arrive, it is most unexpected.

Jinghim, his half brother, passed. The prince grew old yet he was quick to battle when called upon. His injuries, gained in the services of their father, weakened him too much. The Khan calls for Byamba to return to Cambulac.

 

.

.

.

 

“Go now,” the khan says. He sits under his pagoda where he once spent his spare time with Empress Chabi. He still wears the mourning clothes, the smell of incense clinging to the cloth from Jinghim’s funeral.

 

“Father,” Byamba says, “Where do you wish for me to go?”

 

“You mistake my intent,” the Khan says, “I ask no more of you. I release you from service.”

 

Byamba stands dumbly before his father. He understands the words his father speaks. He is simply unprepared to bear their weight.

 

The Khan grows weary. The striking figure who had conquers so many lands is now weak, his body fat and riddled with disease. He does not appear the leader that he is. He looks like a sad, old man watching the water birds which his wife had once tenderly cared for.

 

If his father had not been the Khan and he had not been a royal bastard, perhaps Byamba would have moved to comfort his father. Perhaps, Byamba would have planned to stay by his father side. Yet, fate is as it is.

 

“Farewell, father,” Byamba says, more out of instinct than understanding. It is a strange sensation indeed to be able to guide his intent.  

 

“And you too, my son,” the Khan says. His father’s eyes fall upon him but Byamba does not feel seen. “Be at peace as your mother wanted.”

 

Then, simply, it is done. As he had once dreamed, there are no more wars. There is no pomp. It is finished.

 

.

.

.

 

For days and then weeks he simply wanders. He sees his father’s empire, for the first time without a horse or armor between himself and the sights before him. He begins to make plans go to his mother’s homeland but finds he guides his horse to another destination.

 

He wants to see another life, just once more.

 

He feels eyes upon him as he moves through the city of Karakorum. He wears no armor and his title is striped along with it. He is allowed to pass. The ger he shared for a short time with Khutulun still stands.

 

His child sits outside his old home, sharpening her blade. She is fifteen years of age. He wonders if she leads a tumen as he did at her age. He wonders if she still feels aches in her legs from growing. He sees his bow ring, the one had sent for Khutulun through Marco, and wonders if she is clumsy or competent with the bow.

 

‘You are not my shame.’ He knows now it was not a dream. He had heard her speak to him in the dungeon of the city Lord Kaidu held.

 

He had not been his mother’s shame either, Byamba thinks. The Lord Khan had been correct, even if his words had not been for his bastard. She had only wished he be at peace as such had eluded her during her own life.

 

“General Byamba.”

 

He raises his eyes as his child calls his name. She places her blade down and rises, hesitant to move towards him. Her words pull her mother’s attention. Khutulun bends her head as she steps out of their ger. The structure is still to small, Byamba thinks, his old noose tight on his throat.

He is too late. A decade and a half have passed. The time for such a decision was made long ago and he must live with the repercussions.

 

Yet, he does not move away.

 

He waits. Khutulun’s brow sinks into a glare but she makes not move to stop their daughter as the girl begins to walk towards him.

 

He speaks like a madman, his voice a feverish whisper, “My daughter. You are my daughter. She is my wife. That is the truth.”

 

“I begged for your release, General Byamba,” his daughter says, “I cannot bear to see them kill you. Please go.”

 

Her eyes are filled with concern and a mild curiosity. He feels guilty to see this. Such calm, gentle emotions should be had for a man who held the girl as she took her first steps, a man who watched her grow tall. He is not worthy of them. He looks to Khutulun who watches them, silent. Even after all this time, he wishes simply to hold her once again.

 

He has nothing to offer. No explanation would ease their minds or take away the burden he placed on them. He turns, ashamed of himself for disgracing them with his presence.

 

“General Byamba. No. Stop. Wait!”

 

He begins to take longer steps. His mare watches him. He begins to reach for his reins long before he is close to the horse.

 

“Father,” his daughter says, “Father!”

 

The word pull him from his haze. He savors the sound.

 

“Father,” his daughter says, reaching for him, “Please, just for a moment, will you come inside?”

 

He stops, allows her to take his arm.


End file.
